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A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 




I 









A LAND OF WAVING PALMS 


"" ■ —r-* 




V A TOUR 

AND 

A ROMANCE 

BY 

ALICE E. ROBBINS 


“ There is something in the mere name of the South that 
carries enthusiasm along with it. Even those who have 
never been there before feel as if they had been; and 
everybody goes comparing and seeking for the familiar, 
and finding it with such ecstasies of recognition, that one 
would think they were coming home after a weary absence 
instead of travelling hourly farther abroad.” 

R. L. S. in Ordered South. 


J i 
* > T 

* > ° 


NEW YORK 

THE BAKER AND TAYLOR COMPANY 

1911 




Copyright , 1911, by 
The Baker and Taylor Company 



THE • PLIMPTON • PRESS • NORWOOD • MASS • U • S • A 


©Cl. A 286836 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Professor’s Lecture i 

II. Crossing the Atlantic 13 

III. London to Paris 36 

IV. The Hotel Supreme 45 

V. Speeding South 50 

VI. Van Putten visits the Escorial 59 

VII. The Bull-Fight 69 

VIII. The Rag Fair 83 

IX. A Day in Toledo 91 

X. The Mounting of the Guard 99 

XI. Through Cordova to Seville 103 

XII. A Visit to the Caridad 114 

XIII. The Garden of the Alcazar 120 

XIV. A Confidential Chat 127 

XV. Pilate’s House 121 

XVI. Good-bye to Seville 146 

XVII. Gilbraltar iS3 

XVIII. Tangier 172 

XIX. Granada 19 1 

XX. Ancient Romance and Modern Romance . . 201 

XXI. A Visit to the Alhambra 205 

XXII. The Garden of the Generalife 215 

XXIII. The Month of Roses 227 

XXIV. A Visit to Silcombe 239 

XXV. Conclusion 265 


V 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


A Land of Waving Palms . . 

The Court of Myrtles 
Leo in Moorish Costume . 

The Land of Moorish Mosques . 
The Land of Romance 

Bullocks at Work 

The Court of the Kings . 

A Spanish Street 

The Bull Ring . ... . . . 

The Rag Fair 

Castilian Brother and Sister . 
A Street in Toledo 
The Market-Place .... 
The Lion Gateway .... 
The Cloisters of San Juan . 
The Gate of the Sun . . . 

The Palace Square 
The Mounting of the Guard 
The Court of Oranges 
The Belle of Cordova . . 

The Market-Place .... 

La Giralda 

The Alcazar 

The Doll’s Court .... 

The Garden of the Alcazar 

vii 



Frontispiece 
Facing p. 3 
“ 37 

“ Si 

“ 57 

“ 65 

“ 7i 
“ 76 

“ 84 

“ 9i 
“ 93 

“ 98 

“ 100 

“ 104 

“ 106 

“ in 

“ 121 


123 


Vlll 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


Pilate’s House 

The Rock 

A Soldier’s Funeral . . . 

Landing at Tangier . . . 

The Hotel Cecil .... 
Shahib on his White Donkey 
A Street in Tangier . . . 

The Great Socco .... 

The Snake Charmer 
Towards the Marshan 

A Berber Hut 

Tangier in the Distance . 

Camels from Fez .... 

A Street in Tangier . . . 

A Moorish Coffee-House . 

Gipsy Cave Dwellings 
The Gate of Justice . . . 

Carlo 

Entrance to the Alhambra . 

The Court of Lions 

In the Hall of the Abencerrage . 
The Queen’s Dressing-Room . . . 

The Sierra Nevada 

One of the Five Fountains . . . 

A Garden of Romance . 



Facing p. 134 


<< 

<( 


1 54 

171 


174 


176 

178 

180 

182 

186 

193 

201 

206 

208 

229 


279 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


CHAPTER I 

THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE 

Professor de Castro was lecturing on the departed 
glories of Spain. His audience was composed of that 
small section of women in New York who culti- 
vate culture and play with learning. The darkened 
hall was heavy with the fumes of acetylene gas, which 
perhaps explained the curiously somnolent feeling ex- 
perienced by the majority of the Professor’s hearers. 

He was a middle-aged man with a thin, sallow face 
and a foreign accent. He had been the pet of New 
York for the entire winter, but with the spring had 
come a new sensation in the shape of a rollicking 
Irishman, who preached the curse of over-education 
and pleaded passionately for the recrudescence of 
the womanly woman — the tutelary goddess of the 
spinning-wheel and the spinet. Unsightly gaps in the 
rows of velvet-cushioned chairs testified to the power 
of Professor de Castro’s rival. He tried not to feel 
those gaps, but he was as conscious as the man who 
has just had several teeth drawn. Like the sufferer 
who returns from the dentist, he hoped that other 
people were not noticing the empty places. He 

l 


2 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


thought of his widowed mother and two spinster 
sisters who were entirely dependent on him, and the 
thought suddenly unnerved him. 

On the screen was reflected the majestic outlines 
of the Alhambra; the various points of interest he 
indicated with a long stick. The pointing hand wavered, 
and the Professor found himself aimlessly prodding 
the Tower of Comares. He tried to speak, but no 
words came. He made a step forward and gulped 
dow r n half a tumbler of water, and then again turned 
towards the screen. All at once the oppressive still- 
ness was broken by a woman’s snore — an unmelodious, 
unmistakable snore. Professor de Castro’s sallow face 
flushed. He had not dared to whisper to himself 
that he was not gripping his audience, and here was 
some one who brazenly proclaimed the fact. He could 
trace the sound — it came from the third row. Had 
he been unable to do so, the action of a girl also 
sitting in the third row would have enlightened him. 
He could almost feel her indignant glance as she half 
turned in her chair and looked full at the offender. 
He knew the girl well by sight. She never missed 
a lecture, and she always occupied that same chair in 
the third row and scribbled notes in a red book with 
the aid of a toy electric lamp. He had never spoken 
to her. Sadie Van Putten was not the sort of girl 
to storm the platform afterwards, as was the recognised 
custom of many of his hearers. A sudden sympathy 
was kindled in the Professor’s heart. As men in a 
hopeless cause instinctively follow the leader who leaps 
into the breach, so the Professor was goaded to further 
exertion by the sight of the girl in the third row, who 
listened to every word he uttered and thought those 
same words worthy of preservation in a red notebook. 



THE ALHAMBRA 





THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE 


3 


Her attitude gave him fresh courage and he con- 
ducted his hearers with pride through the halls of the 
grand old palace. He loved Spain. Her past history 
was more vivid to him than present-day happenings. 
He saw with the eye of the lover — he spoke with 
the voice of the lover anxious to extol and slow to see 
any blemish. In the Court of the Myrtles he lingered, 
and his audience, looking at the crystal water flanked 
by verdant hedges, forgot for the moment the heat 
and the pungent odour of acetylene gas. 

From the Court of Myrtles he marshalled them to the 
Court of Lions. Several of the ladies, recognising the 
famous monument from photographs, began to take 
more interest in the Professor and his lecture. It is a 
mistake to suppose that familiarity breeds contempt. 
Familiarity breeds a most blissful contentment. In the 
Hall of the Ambassadors the Professor called a halt. 

“This Hall,” he said, in ringing tones, “is of special 
interest to every American. On that small square’ (he 
indicated it with his wand) “Columbus knelt before 
Ferdinand and Isabella and gratefully accepted the 
offer of three small sailing vessels for his hazardous 
expedition. For eight years he had waited for that help 
so tardily given, and then, it is said, the Queen pledged 
her jewels to provide the money. 

“One of your learned men has remarked that a man is 
too old for work at forty.” Here a note of scorn could 
be detected in the Professor’s mobile voice. “Too old 
at forty,” he repeated, painfully conscious of his fifty odd 
years. “If a man is too old at forty, you might not be 
listening to me to-day, for Columbus was fifty-six when 
he discovered America.” 

Sadie Van Putten was writing rapidly; she began to 
wish she bad learnt shorthand, or that die Professor did 


‘4 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


not speak quite so fast. Columbus melted into Wash- 
ington Irving and she was not quite sure when the 
change had come. 

“He has made the Alhambra real,” said the Professor, 
“to thousands who have never visited it. He found it 
sunk, as it were, in a heavy sleep.” A loud snore 
punctuated this remark. “A heavy sleep,” he repeated 
savagely, “and his magic words woke the place to life 
again. Before you visit the various rooms you will, of 
course, have prepared yourself by reading the Tales of 
the Alhambra , and perhaps you will be a little dis- 
appointed to find that those rooms do not kindle in you 
the wonderful emotions they called up in Washington 
Irving. You say to yourself you must be very 
commonplace. My friends, when we feel that, we are 
merely paying a tribute to genius. Genius sees the 
Real through a rose-coloured glass we call the Ideal. 
Therefore, try not to feel disappointed if all the rooms 
are not repeopled for you at a glance. Ghosts are 
elusive folk. You seek in one corner and you find in 
another. There is a delightful chapter in the Tales en- 
titled ‘The Mysterious Chambers.’ Washington Irving 
had been given the apartments which formerly belonged 
to Elizabeth of Farnese, wife of Philip v. He describes 
the creepy feeling he experienced when, after being 
escorted thither, he was left alone. It is a wonderful 
piece of word painting. We start when he starts at 
some unaccustomed sound, and we almost hold our 
breath when he pauses in some dim passage to recall 
a half- forgotten tragedy. Little did Washington Irving 
think when he penned those legends that one day his 
spirit, mightier than they all, would haunt the Courts 
of the Alhambra.” 

“I wish he would not go so fast,” said Sadie, half 


THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE 


5 


aloud, as the charming apartment overlooking the 
garden of Lindaraxa vanished, and a small prison-like 
chamber wobbled into view. 

“There,” said the Professor, “is the room where 
Joanna the Fool was imprisoned by her son, Charles the 
Fifth. To women it is undoubtedly the most interest- 
ing room in the Alhambra. The woman who spent 
long hours of wretchedness there was the daughter of 
Ferdinand and Isabella, and she married Philip, surnamed 
‘the handsome.’ By many she was called unattractive, 
although the recumbent figure of her in the Cathedral 
at Granada does not give one altogether that idea. But, 
whatever her appearance may have been, she had not 
the power of holding a man’s heart. Philip neglected 
her and found amusement elsewhere, and Joanna’s pitiful 
feminine attempts to bring him back would be comic 
were it not for the underlying element of tragedy. 
When Philip le bel d^ed she insisted on bringing his 
body from Burgos to Granada to be buried. The 
melancholy procession only travelled at night, and, 
whenever it stopped, Joanna would look through the 
glass coffin-lid at the handsome features of her fickle 
husband. There are not many Joannas left in this 
twentieth century.” 

A little thrill ran through the audience. The Pro- 
fessor was beginning to be personal and it was much 
more entertaining. 

“Do you think,” he went on, “that there are many 
to be found in New York City to-day? We have another 
type — the modern matron who gallops through Europe 
and leaves her husband to grind at his desk. Women 
of New York, I ask you to pause before it is too late — 
before you bring about the ruin of your country. Why 
have you so much dishonesty, political and commercial? 


6 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


The men are actually responsible, but the women are 
morally to blame. They accept bribery and corruption. 
They do not care how the money is made so long as 
they have it to spend.” The Professor paused. He had 
the audience in his grip now, and he knew it. Even the 
lady who had previously slumbered was awake and alert, 
and Sadie Van Putten was so interested that she forgot 
to take any more notes. “Are you aware,” he thundered, 
“of the preponderance of men in the United States? 
Are you also aware that there are more spinsters than 
in any other country in the world? Why is this? I 
will tell you. It is because you American women have 
been spoilt by the men. You are educated side by side 
— you are dead sick of one another before you are five- 
and-twenty. You have no ideals, but you have millions 
of theories. Joanna had an ideal. It was shattered, but 
she stdl clung to it. There is no more touching example 
of wifely devotion in the world than that long pilgrimage 
from Burgos to Granada — no more touching monument 
than that of husband and wife in the Cathedral there. 
Joanna was nicknamed the Fool, but was she not wiser 
than the women of the twentieth century, who place 
culture and money and position before the great primal 
fact and necessity of life? We want more Joannas in 
the world more women who recognise that without 
love life is barren and unsatisfying and impossible.” 

1 he Professor finished amidst applause, and fragments 
of conversation floated about the room. 

‘My, wasn’t he just fine!” said one. “What a power 
of notes you took, Sadie. With your permission, I’ll 
type them before I sail next week.” 

Going to Europe without your husband?” inquired 
another. “What would the Professor say?” 

The first speaker laughed. 


THE PROFESSOR S LECTURE 


7 


“Men talk about women being illogical, but I must 
say I think the Professor is very illogical in his remarks. 
Didn’t he tell us it was our duty to visit all these beauti- 
ful spots, and, as my husband can’t leave the works for 
more than a week at a time, I must make the best of it 
and go by myself.” 

“I’ve been waiting ten years to see Europe, but I 
don’t go without Mr. Dobson,” said a pleasant-looking 
woman, whose devotion to her husband was a source of 
amusement to many. 

“ I’m crazy to go to Spain,” said another. “Aren’t you, 
Sadie?” 

“I can’t go just at present,” replied Sadie, “because 
of father. He’s suffering terribly from nerves.” 

“Nerves!” echoed an ardent Christian Scientist. 
“To accept nerves is to accept matter, and we all know 
that matter has no existence.” 

One or two, anticipating a monologue on the science 
of healing, edged away, leaving Sadie and Mrs. Dobson 
and the Christian Scientist together. 

“Father doesn’t believe in these new fads,” said Sadie 
briskly. “ He’s gone to see a doctor this very afternoon.” 

The Christian Scientist gave her a look of benevolent 
pity. 

“How hard it is to eradicate error in the human 
soul!” she said sweetly. “He could have been cured 
so easily. All you have to do is to devitalise yourself.” 

“Devitalise yourself? How do you do that?” said 
Mrs. Dobson. 

“ Simply let yourself go — it’s the easiest thing in the 
world. Study a cat or an infant — there you have 
perfect examples of devitalisation.” 

“And after you have let yourself go,” said Mrs. 
Dobson doubtfully, “what then?” 


8 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Then you repeat slowly — ‘I have no nerves.’” 

“I see; you tell yourself a lie in the hope that you 
may believe it.” 

“You suggest to yourself,” said the Christian Scientist 
grandly, “and if the suggestion is powerful enough it 
will come to pass. Have you read the Master Mind?” 

“No,” said Sadie. 

“Get it; it’s a really wonderful book. It shows how 
the very weakest person can increase in will power and 
conquer circumstances. Oh, it’s a beautiful book ! And 
it gives some very touching illustrations of the power 
of the human will. I know an old lady who refused to 
walk anywhere — she always insisted on taking a street- 
car. And one day a friend came in with a copy of the 
Master Mind , and she persuaded the old lady to read it, 
and very soon the old lady began to feel very much 
better. The last time I heard of her, she had just 
walked from Broadway to Brooklyn. I, myself, recently 
cured a dear friend who was perpetually worrying over 
little things.” 

She paused dramatically for exclamations of surprise, 
but none came, so she continued her story. 

“I made her repeat every morning after her dumb 
bell exercise one sentence — ‘I will be happy.’” 

“And is she happy?” inquired Mrs. Dobson, with 
interest. 

“Happy,” reiterated the other. “Why, happiness is 
running out of the pores of her skin — she’s bubbling 
with it.” 

“ If I was unhappy,” said Mrs. Dobson, whose beaming 
face seemed to preclude any such possibility, “I reckon 
I shouldn’t be cured if I chanted ‘I will be happy’ all 
day long. I can’t understand how that can cure any- 
body.” 


THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE 


9 


“No, you can’t understand, and I can’t explain,” said 
the Christian Scientist crushingly. “You have to be 
on the higher plane to grasp it. Have you read How I 
Achieved Success , by Horace G. Parker?” 

“No,” said Sadie and Mrs. Dobson both together. 

“Get it. That’s my advice; get it. The author is 
a wonderful man — a really wonderful man. He says 
that ordinary people make a very great mistake. They 
think failure when they might just as well think success. 
It’s as easy to think success as to think failure. Now, 
isn’t it?” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Dobson. “To my mind success is 
easy enough to think and difficult enough to get.” 

“Horace G. Parker says you must hold in your mind 
the thought of success.” 

“At the beginning of life,” said Mrs. Dobson, “most 
young people hold in their mind the thought of success. 
They needn’t go to a book to be told to do it — it comes 
quite natural to them. But time goes along, and they 
get many disappointments and many hard knocks, and 
after awhile they leave off thinking success.” 

“They shouldn’t leave off,” said the Christian 
Scientist; “ that’s where they make the mistake. Horace 
G. Parker says that all you’ve got to do is to stretch 
out your hand and grasp success.” The Christian 
Scientist stretched out a grey kid-gloved hand as if 
wrestling with an invisible enemy. “He says, the more 
success struggles to get away from you the firmer you 
must grasp. It’s very simple, really.” 

“It’s very simple on paper,” argued Mrs. Dobson, 
“but it’s very difficult in real life. Why, do you 
think if success was such an easy matter as some of 
these writers make out that we should have all these 
failures walking around? I think this Success for 


10 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Everybody style of literature does a great deal of 
harm. It gives people false ideas. Success can’t be 
for everybody — it’s only for the few. You should hear 
what Mr. Dobson says. He admires Ralph Waldo 
Emerson very much — he thinks he was a very great 
man. But he says he can’t put up with the crowd of 
feeble imitators who walk in Emerson’s footsteps, 
hanging on to his coat tails.” 

Mrs. Dobson and Sadie left the lecture hall together 
and walked down Broadway. 

It was a. brilliant sunshiny afternoon and all New 
York was out of doors. The spirit of unrest was 
rampant, and the fact had never come home to Sadie 
with greater force. After the dignified grandeur of the 
Alhambra she shrank from the vulgarity of the gigantic 
buildings and the noise and the dust and the general 
glare. 

“Even our buildings are impudent,” she said, raising 
her voice so as to be heard above the grating clang of 
the trolley cars. “Look at them. Aren’t they just 
ready to poke their noses into heaven itself?” 

Mrs. Dobson gave her a quick, interrogating glance. 

“What’s the matter, Sadie?” she said. “Has Tom 
Vincent been worrying you again?” 

“I’ve been thinking over the Professor’s remarks.” 

“About marriage?” 

“Yes, and the selfishness of American women and all 
that. Am I selfish because I don’t want to marry 
Tom?” 

“Why, no. If you set your mind on a silk gown in 
one particular colour, and you go to the stores and they 
haven’t got a silk gown, but they have an elegant suit 
in striped tweed, you would think yourself at liberty to 
walk out of the stores, wouldn’t you?” ^ 


THE PROFESSOR’S LECTURE 


11 


Sadie nodded her head. 

“But, if you try all the stores and you can’t get the 
silk gown in that particular colour, after a time you 
may go back to the first place and decide on the striped 
suit. Well, fixing up a husband is for all the world like 
that.” 

“Of course, I’m fond of Tom in a way,” continued 
Sadie, “but we haven’t got the same tastes. I like 
books and music, and he never reads anything but the 
newspaper, and thinks the ‘Stars and Stripes’ the finest 
march that was ever composed.” 

“If it comes to that, Mr. Dobson and I haven’t the 
same tastes. He’ll spend six dollars on a dinner ” 

“And you won’t?” put in Sadie. 

“Not I. As I often tell him, I don’t like swallowing 
money. But I’ll spend fifty dollars on a brooch, and 
he thinks that’s mighty extravagant. After all, these 
are little things — they don’t really matter. Talking of 
marriage, I’ve a piece of news for you. Miriam Price is 
just engaged.” 

“No! Who to?” 

“The man owns a ranch out West. If any woman 
has a mind to get married, she can always find a hus- 
band out West inside of three months.” 

“The reason, of course, is there are so many more 
men,” said Sadie. 

“That’s so, but that’s not the reason. It’s all work 
in those parts and no distractions. What the Professor 
said this afternoon is quite true. In the States we have 
more men than women and more spinsters than in any 
other country in the world. If the President were to 
close half the theatres and the women’s clubs and the 
Browning societies, there would be an epidemic of 
marriages.” 


n A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 

“Of course, I like Tom,” said Sadie; “I dare say we 
should get along very well together.” 

“If you feel like that about Tom,” said Mrs. Dobson, 
with decision, “I guess you haven’t got the right sort of 
feeling. Falling in love is just like being struck by 
lightning. When a woman's struck by lightning, Sadie, 
she knows it .” 


CHAPTER II 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 

When Sadie Van Putten returned home after Professor 
de Castro’s lecture, she was surprised to find her father 
in a contemplative attitude, sunk in the depths of an 
arm-chair. It was only five o’clock and Jonas Van 
Putten was not in the habit of sitting in arm-chairs at 
that hour. He was what is known as a busy man, and 
people usually associated him with the typewriter and 
the telephone. Sadie guessed that something extraor- 
dinary must have happened. 

When Van Putten caught sight of his daughter his 
mouth widened into the humorous smile which was 
characteristic of him. 

“Sadie,” he said, “I’ve had a regular knock-down 
blow.” 

Sadie’s thoughts instinctively flew to Wall Street, but 
she was wrong in her surmises. 

“The markets are queer,” he observed dryly, “but not 
as queer as I am.” 

Unlike the so-called typical American, Jonas Van 
Putten did not commence every sentence with “ Wal” or 
“I guess,” although occasionally he dropped into such 
colloquialisms. But, when he said the markets were 
queer, you could tell he was American by the way he 
dodged the letter “r” in the two words. And if further 
proof was needed you had only to look at his dress, 
13 


14 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


which was as slovenly as that of the average American 
male, and at his eyes restless and eager, which glowed in 
a face wrinkled and yellowed like an overripe pear. 

“I’ve just come from Dr. Waldo Smith’s,” he con- 
tinued. 

Waldo Smith was the famous nerve specialist. He 
had once been heard to remark that New York City 
was a paradise for the brain specialist. 

“What did Waldo Smith say?” 

“He said he wouldn’t give me a twelvemonth unless 
I had a thorough change — said I must go abroad at 
once.” 

Van Putten spoke in as dejected a tone as if he had 
been ordered to a penal settlement. He resented the 
great doctor’s advice. If his health obliged him to 
travel, why was he not permitted to travel in his own 
country? Were not the American rivers bigger and the 
American mountains higher than any to be found else- 
where? He felt inclined to cry out in bitterness with 
the captain of the host of old, “Are not the rivers of 
Damascus better than all the waters of Israel? May I 
not wash in them and be clean?” 

“I asked him,” he went on, after a somewhat em- 
barrassing pause, “if he thought there was any chance 
of my dying abroad. I wouldn’t go under those circum- 
stances. It would be very awkward for you, Sadie, and 
besides that, they tell me embalming’s a very expensive 
business.” 

“And what did he say?” she asked, in the same 
matter-of-fact tone. 

“Not the ghost of a chance, if I get away at once.” 

“At once,” repeated Sadie. “ How soon will that be? ” 

“The day after to-morrow, Sadie. As soon as I heard 
that, I ’phoned for our state rooms.” 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


15 


“Did Waldo Smith mention any particular spot that 
would be good for you?” 

“He didn’t say, and I was too upset to ask him. He 
said I must try and find a place where the papers would 
be a week old before they reached.” 

“That will be rather difficult,” said Sadie. “Even on 
the Swiss mountains I’m afraid we’d get the papers 
before then.” 

“He told me I must go slow — take a sort of rest- 
cure.” 

“Did he mean you must go into an institution and 
live on milky rice puddings and go to bed of an after- 
noon?” 

“I don’t know, Sadie. I was so bowled over I clean 
forgot to ask him. I wish I hadn’t paid that fee without 
getting a few more particulars. But I don’t think, some- 
how, he meant an institution.” 

“A rest-cure!” echoed Sadie thoughtfully — “a place 
where the papers are a week old. Father, we’ll go to 
Spain.” 

“Well, if you think so,” replied Jonas Van Putten, 
without enthusiasm; “but why Spain?” 

“Because Spain has been taking a rest-cure for 
centuries. Christopher Columbus discovered America. 
We will return the compliment and discover Spain.” 

A week later the Van Puttens sailed. Sadie enjoyed 
the voyage with the keen enjoyment of a person who is 
setting off on a three months’ holiday with the fixed idea 
that many delightful things are about to happen. This 
is the true holiday spirit, and without this spirit it is no 
use setting off on a holiday at all. We must start on 
the journey as the knights did of old — full of hope, full of 
curiosity to explore the unknown, and, like the knights 
of old, we must carry powerful weapons. 


16 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


It is true that we shall not be called upon to slay 
dragons and monsters. There are modern hotels in the 
centre of Africa where the men put on dinner-jackets 
every evening, and unknown Tibet will soon be as well 
known as Regent Street. The only dragon to slay is 
the dragon of Boredom, and this hydraheaded monster 
takes a good deal of killing. 

Sadie, although she did not show it, was well armed 
against this twentieth-century dragon. Where two or 
three were gathered together it was impossible for her 
to feel bored. She loved studying people. And there 
is nowhere like the promenade deck of a big liner for 
indulgence in this fascinating pastime. 

On the promenade deck of an Atlantic liner you can 
study the world in miniature. There is the ruling 
power in the person of the captain, and from the 
captain on the bridge you go down, and down, and 
down, until at last you find yourself in the engine- 
room, where the stokers are busy keeping the great 
ship afloat. 

The usual crowd was to be found on the Lusitania. 
There were the grumblers. They were a large class. 
The grumblers grumbled if they had canned peaches 
for lunch instead of fresh; they grumbled if the vessel 
steamed twenty knots instead of twenty-four; they 
grumbled incessantly. Then there were the born 
managers. They were a numerous class also. The born 
managers were kept perpetually busy, mentally reorgan- 
ising the world while they reclined comfortably in long 
deck-chairs. In the born manager class were the civilians, 
whose profound knowledge of the Army caused them to 
draw up elaborate schemes for Army Reform. There 
were also the Socialists, who spoke of humanity with 
bated breath and a capital H. They pleaded for State 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


17 


Nurseries, State Kitchens, State Crematoriums. They 
would have liked to have arranged for a State Heaven 
after death, and they felt it was hard that this should 
be beyond their power. 

And besides these prominent characters there were 
the more ordinary people — the woman who felt it 
was a pity that she should have thrown herself away 
on such an uninteresting husband; the man who traced 
a long succession of failures to the scapegoat commonly 
known as hard luck. There was also “the most pop- 
ular man on board.” 

His name was Brian Desmond, and his name was 
supposed to be sufficient excuse for anything he 
did. “Don’t pay any attention to Desmond; he’s 
a typical Celt,” some one would say. Or, “Oh, you 
mustn’t mind Desmond; he has Irish blood in his 
veins.” 

Brian Desmond was the sort of man who holds 
undisputed sway on the promenade deck of an ocean 
liner, in the local tennis club of a provincial town, 
in the ballroom of a Scotch hydro. He was a 
master hand at organising progressive whists and 
gymkhanas; his voice was baritone, but he could sing 
tenor, and did so if necessary. When he left a hotel 
lamentations were general, and people used to ask 
themselves how they had managed to exist before his 
arrival; he was a good amateur actor and an exquisite 
waltzer. His hatred of any sort of regular employ- 
ment was his chief characteristic. 

Brian Desmond singled Sadie out for special attention. 

“Denis, me bhoy,” he said to his friend, “I like 
that American girl immensely. I honestly believe that 
the influence of a good woman would be the savin ’ 
of me.” 


18 A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 

“ Particularly a good woman with money, put in 
Denis. 

Desmond looked at his friend with a hurt expression. 
It was decidedly awkward to have a friend who insisted 
on doubting one’s noblest sentiments. Still, there were 
compensations. Unlike most people, Denis liked him 
for what he really was, and not for what he pretended 
to be. 

“ Go in and win,” said Denis; “ I’ll be your best man.” 

“Urn really in earnest this time,” replied Desmond, 
in his mellow baritone. 

“Is the money all right?” 

Again the hurt look came into Desmond’s dark eyes. 

“Denis, I’m ashamed of ye.” 

“I’m only asking for information. People have an 
idea that every American travelling abroad for his 
health must be a millionaire. That’s why I say to 
you — is the money all right?” 

Desmond’s sensitive self-respect was so wounded 
that he made no answer. 

“Don’t worry, old man,” said Denis. “The money 
is all right. You know Kelly?” 

“Yes.” 

“He told me so; he says he often runs across Van 
Putten in Wall Street. He’s a financier, and he’s 
broken down through overwork. As a last chance, 
the doctor ordered him abroad. Miss Van Putten is 
the only child. My advice is — go in and win.” 

“It’s a great pity, Denis, that you’re so — so cynical. 
You impute such low motives to everybody. I honestly 
think the girl charming. And if she likes me ” 

“Does she?” 

“I don’t know. American girls are brought up so 
differently to English girls. They’ll walk with a 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


19 


man, and they’ll talk with a man, and they’ll accept 
unlimited chocolates or ‘candies,’ as they call them, 
from a man, but when it comes to marrying ” 

“Don’t hesitate too long or you’ll find Dr. George 
supplanting you.” Desmond laughed — his rich attrac- 
tive laugh. By that laugh his friend could tell how 
keenly be appreciated the joke. 

“Dr. George! Why, he’s older than her father!” 

“Girls occasionally marry men older than their 
fathers.” 

“That’s true. I think I’ll go and see if Miss Van 
Putten is on deck — we might try over our duet for 
the concert together.” 

Desmond got as far as the door and then turned 
back. 

“Denis.” 

“Yes.” 

“Look at me.” 

“All right! I’m looking.” 

1 “Do you see any just cause or impediment why Miss 
Van Putten should not like me?” 

Denis examined his friend critically. 

He saw a handsome, clean-shaven face just sufficiently 
worn to make it doubly attractive to nine women out 
of ten. He saw crisping dark hair which fell in 
heavy black waves over an expanse of white forehead; 
he saw a few shining silver threads which only served 
to throw into bolder relief the beauty of the said 
black waves. He saw a pair of fine dark eyes — eyes 
that were capable of expressing anything and every- 
thing. And, as he gazed, he felt what he always felt 
when he looked at Desmond — the subtle, ever-present, 
overwhelming charm of the man. 

“Well, Denis!” 


20 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Well, Desmond!” 

“Is there any reason why Miss Van Putten shouldn’t 
like me?” 

“Certainly not. You’re undoubtedly the most pop- 
ular man on board.” 

After Desmond left his friend, he walked up and 
down the promenade deck on the look out for Sadie. 
At last he spied her. She was not alone; Dr. George 
was with her. 

Desmond did not for one moment imagine that Sadie 
would think seriously of a man of fifty, but still he 
would have preferred that she should not be so interested 
in the doctor’s conversation. 

As he watched them, he made his own plans. He 
wondered which would be the best way to start the 
campaign. It was a beautiful starry night. He thought 
an allusion to the stars might be a promising be- 
ginning. Personally he cared very little for astronomy, 
and only knew the names of three stars; but these 
three stars had done him yeoman service in the past, 
and would no doubt do so in the future. 

He had no intention of making Sadie an offer of 
marriage off-hand; he proposed to turn the conversation 
skilfully in the way he knew so well, until he could 
form some idea of the American girl’s views with regard 
to marriage. 

Sadie Van Putten had certainly shown herself very 
friendly during the few days he had known her. But, 
as he had observed ten minutes before to Denis, 
friendliness in an American girl does not necessarily 
mean that any more tender feeling lurks in the back- 
ground. Desmond could not help thinking that it 
was a pity that the Lusitania was making such a 
good record. Another week spent in Sadie’s society 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


21 


and the result might be, and probably would be, certain. 
He determined on no account to risk a point-blank 
refusal. For one thing, as he knew well by the 
experience of others, a point-blank refusal is damaging 
to a man’s morale. He can never have quite the same 
faith in himself again. A man may live out a long, 
happy, honoured bachelor existence without ever 
suffering a single blow to his vanity. He can attend, 
and does attend, the various weddings of his brother 
men. and, as he watches the bride and bridegroom 
march down the aisle, he can solace himself, and does 
solace himself, with this comforting reflection — “Ah! 
if I’d only given her the chance, she would probably 
have preferred me!” 

But a man who has put his attractions to the test is 
denied any such comfort. He has entered into battle 
— he has suffered defeat. The wisest thing he can do 
under such heart-breaking circumstances is to pick out 
some other woman who has not been surfeited with 
attention and make sure of success at the outset. 

People sometimes say they wonder how it is that 
handsome men invariably marry plain women. The 
handsome men do not explain why it is. They are 
wise. They keep their own counsel. 

Desmond told himself that he was not attracted to 
Sadie because of her money, but in spite of her money. 
Like many Irishmen, he was romantic on the surface, 
but intensely practical really. It was absolutely 
necessary that he should marry a girl with money. 
He had an income of three hundred a year, but that 
did not go very far. And his tastes were expensive, 
and showed a tendency to become more expensive as 
the years slid by. 

It was certainly pleasant to be an amateur billiard 


‘22 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


champion, and flattering to one’s vanity to be an 
authority on private theatricals; but occasionally 
these delights palled. Sometimes Desmond had his 
black days; and on these black days his soul was sick, 
and he cursed himself because, early in life, he had 
chosen play instead of work. This mood rarely lasted 
long, however. 

Meanwhile, Sadie walked up and down, deep in con- 
versation with Dr. George. Dr. George had the sort 
of appearance that New England people are fond of 
describing as homely. His features were unobtrusive, 
his manner was unobtrusive; he was the sort of man 
who is likely to be passed over in general society. The 
many would always ignore him — the few would always 
esteem him. 

A chance remark of Sadie’s had attracted him. And 
now it was no unusual sight to see Sadie and Dr. 
George promenading the deck together, and apparently 
enjoying themselves very much. 

People used to look up from book or newspaper 
and wonder if the American girl and the doctor were 
“ going to make a match of it.” Such an idea never 
entered the heads of the two who found so much to 
talk about. 

Both Sadie and Dr. George possessed, in a marked 
degree, the spirit of inquiry, and it was this spirit of 
inquiry that attracted the one to the other. 

Sadie had met but few Englishmen. She was 
anxious to learn all about England, and Dr. George 
was very pleased to teach her. 

He was a man of fifty odd years, who had made for 
himself a large and successful practice in a growing 
London suburb. He had never married. Perhaps he 
had led too busy a life — perhaps he had never met the 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


23 


right woman. It seemed odd that he had not married, 
as he had a strongly affectionate nature and was quiet 
and domesticated in his tastes. 

His experiences had been many, and he sorted them 
out for the benefit of Sadie. 

A doctor with a big practice sees a good deal of human 
nature — he doesn’t always see the best side of it. But 
a big practice and a variety of patients, rich and poor, 
had made Dr. George an optimist at fifty, whereas he 
had been a pessimist at thirty. 

If Dr. George could tell Sadie much that she wanted 
to know about England, she, in her turn, could tell him 
much that he wanted to know about the States. He 
was deeply interested in her account of the science of 
healing as practised by the Emmanuel Church. A 
long experience had convinced Dr. George that the 
average medical practitioner is apt to consider the body 
of his patient too much and the soul of his patient 
too little. 

From Sadie’s scraps of conversation he learnt much 
of American life and thought, and drew his own 
conclusions. 

As they paced the deck together and looked out on 
the still dark waters, the frantic rush of New \ork 
was flashed vividly before his eyes. Sadie’s piquant 
descriptions invariably brought a thing home to the 
listener. 

He listened with an amused interest while she told 
him of the lectures on Buddhism, and the classes for 
jiu-jitsu, and the societies for the better understanding 
of Robert Browning, and the classes that taught one 
the right way to breathe, and the right way to stand, 
and the right way to walk, and the dght way to eat, 
and the right way to think. 


24 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Now and again Sadie would forget she was talking 
to an Englishman, and would run off a string of 
American names. When she found that these well- 
known names had conveyed nothing to Dr. George, 
she would stop suddenly. 

“Perhaps you’re not acquainted with the name of 
Virginia Potter?” 

“I never heard of her. What has she done?” 

Sadie gave a brief account of Virginia Potter, and 
wound up with — 

“I expect you don’t approve of women taking a 
prominent part. Somebody told me that Englishmen 
like their women to keep in the background.” 

Dr. George looked at Sadie. The look expressed 
the physician’s admiration for the perfectly healthy 
body — the individual man’s admiration for the indi- 
vidual woman. In that look there was also complete 
understanding. Dr. George was a man of energy; he 
could sympathise with the stored-up energy of a young 
woman fresh from a young country. 

“D’ye know what I think, Miss Van Putten?” 

“No, Doctor; I want to know.” 

“I think the whole Woman Question was rather 
neatly summed up in the first chapter of Genesis in 
the verse that says, ‘ Male and female created He 
them.’” 

They paced a few steps in silence. Then Dr. George 
said — 

“You’re disappointed in me! Now, confess it!” 

“I thought perhaps you’d have more liberal views 
than some of your countrymen.” 

“Now, you’ll go back to New York and hold me up 
to eternal ignominy before your friends as a specimen 
of the Englishman who wants to crush all women.” 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


25 


“The American women have heard it before/’ said 
Sadie, with her usual frankness. “Professor de Castro, 
in his last lecture, said practically the same thing.” 

“Did he?” 

“Yes. He said that American women are all 
selfish, and that they leave their husbands to grind 
at their desks while they amuse themselves by gallop- 
ing half over Europe.” 

“He was a bold man to say that before an audience 
of women.” 

Sadie laughed. 

“I don’t think the audience minded very much.” 

“According to all accounts,” said Dr. George, 
“Americans are most accommodating husbands. You 
mustn’t marry an Englishman, Miss Van Putten; you 
m ghtn’t find him so easy to manage.” 

All the time he was saying this, he was thinking — 
“Ah! if I had only been twenty years younger!” 

“I don’t know that I’m particularly anxious to fix 
up with either,” replied Sadie. 

Dr. George dropped his tone of light banter. “I’m 
going to give you a piece of advice,” he said — “a piece 
of good, solid advice. You may not be inclined for 
marriage just now, because you feel your life is full 
enough as it is. You have a wonderful gift of sympathy, 
Miss Van Putten, and that will bring you hosts of 
friends. Friends are all very nice and all very pleasant 
— up to a certain point. But my advice to you is — 
marry. I don’t say marry the right man, because a 
girl with your good sense is not very likely to marry 
the wrong one. Life’s road is long and pretty pebbly 
in places, and it’s best to secure a companion for the 
journey. Now, to my mind, a good husband is about 
the best travelling companion a woman can have.” 


'26 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


At last Desmond saw Dr. George leave Sadie; he 
was at her side in an instant. 

A little girl from the north of England, the daughter 
of a rich manufacturer, half rose in her chair and watched 
the meeting between the two. She could not help envy- 
ing Sadie. The men she met in the manufacturing 
town where she lived were bluff and business-like and 
uninteresting — just like her own father, in fact. 

Desmond was like a being from another world. She 
had never come across any people moving in what is 
known as “good society,” but she had an idea that if 
she were ever fortunate enough to meet them, they 
would resemble Brian Desmond. 

So from a little distance off she watched the two and 
wondered what they were talking about, and envied 
them in the way lookers-on always envy those they 
imagine to be more fortunate than themselves. 

“Orion looks fine to-night,” began Desmond, looking 
first at the stars and then at Sadie. As he looked, he 
was wishing that Sadie could have been less practical, 
less alert — in short, less American. He liked a woman 
to be yielding and responsive, and able and willing to 
play up to any one of his varying moods. Sadie did not 
always do this. He liked her appearance. But, again, 
he would have preferred more seductiveness, more of 
the art of pleasing displayed in her dress and in her 
manner. He liked a woman to look as if she needed 
taking care of. The least observant person could see 
that Sadie was perfectly capable of taking care of 
herself. 

They talked of the hundred small happenings of 
everyday life on board. But every time that Desmond 
tried to steer the conversation into a more personal 
channel, he felt Sadie’s hand on the tiller. His usual 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


27 


plan was to start with an abstract subject such as Life 
or Love or Hope, and then travel imperceptibly from 
the abstract to the concrete — from the general to the 
individual. Sadie was perfectly willing to discuss the 
general, but when it came to the individual she shied. 
She was like a young mare brought back time after 
time by a determined rider to the same object and 
obstinately refusing to pass it. 

The night was delicious. For the first week in April 
it was unusually warm — the stars above and the dark 
waters below stirred Desmond’s Celtic soul. He would 
have liked to take Sadie’s hand. But he could not, 
because her hands were thrust deep down in the 
capacious pockets of her dark serge ulster. 

A sudden lurch of the vessel came as a godsend. 
Desmond stretched out his hand and caught hold of 
Sadie’s arm to steady her. Afterwards he did not with- 
draw his arm, but let it rest lightly against hers. Sadie’s 
manner did not give any hint of embarrassment; she 
went on talking as if she did not notice the gentle 
pressure. And the little daughter of the north-country 
manufacturer, who was still watching them, envied them 
more and more. 

It was beginning to get date. Already many merry 
groups on deck had broken up; several men had gone 
off to the smoking-room; half a dozen people Sadie 
knew had called out good-night as they passed. 

Desmond felt it must be now or never. Such an 
opportunity might not occur again. 

“I’ve enjoyed our talk so much,” he said, throwing a 
world of meaning into his rich voice. “I don’t know, 
Miss Van Putten, whether you think as I do. It seems 
to me that, when a man is struggling in these dark 
waters we call Life, he is wise if he stretches out his 


28 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


hand and catches hold of a good woman.” He hushed 
his voice almost to a whisper and sighed deeply. Then 
he recovered himself and went on. “A good woman is 
the saving of many a man.” 

Sadie’s honest brown eyes rested for a second on 
De/smond’s handsome face. During that brief space of 
time he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being 
read through and through. 

“Do you want to know what I think?” she 
said. 

“Of course I do.” 

“Well, I think every man ought to learn to swim, and 
not be obliged to clutch at a woman as a life-saving 
apparatus. Good-night, Mr. Desmond. We’re ’most 
the last people on deck.” 

When Dr. George left Sadie, he strolled into the 
smoking-room, where he found Van Put ten and half a 
dozen other men. There was less noise going on than 
usual. Ordinary topics had been fully discussed. The 
Lusitania’s rate of progress on this voyage had been 
commented on and compared with the rate of progress 
on the previous voyage. Politics had been touched on, 
but only in half-hearted fashion, because most of the 
men happened to be of the same way of thinking. And 
now had come a long pause. 

One of the men filled this pause by walking across 
the smoking-room and studying a notice that was 
pinned up on a square of green baize. 

He read out — 

“ ‘ There will be an entertainment to-morrow evening, 
at nine o’clock precisely, in aid of the Stewards’ 
Benevolent Fund. Song — “ Queen of My Heart ” — Mr. 
Brian Desmond. Recitation — “How I Brought the 
Good News from Ghent” — Mr. Brian Desmond.’ 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC \ 29 

“Humph! We’re going to have plenty of Mr. Brian 
Desmond.” 

“Desmond isn’t half a bad sort,” said another. “The 
worst of him is that he always wants to be first.” 

“He likes the top layer,” put in another. 

Van Putten took a long pull at his pipe. 

“Talking of top layers,” he said, “puts me in mind of 
rather a good yarn.” 

“Let’s have it. Is it a Yankee yarn?” 

“No; it’s pure unadulterated British. It concerns a 
little incident that happened to me on my first visit to 
London — a good many years ago. I hadn’t got much 
money in those days, but I was bent on doing Europe; 
so after I’d scraped together a bit, I joined a party of 
ladies and gentlemen who were equally desirous of 
seeing the other side of the water. It was a vurry 
educational party, but I was obliged to put up with that 
because I got the tickets half-price. We were con-ducted 
by Professor Silas Tucker. He was a college-bred man, 
and he had a vast amount of knowledge. He was a 
little chap — no more than five feet high — and it puzzled 
me where he used to stow that vast amount of know- 
ledge. He always had it handy — done up in brown 
paper parcels, tied up with string and neatly labelled. 

“In those days it used to take more than a fortnight 
to get to the other side, and Silas Tucker em-ployed that 
fortnight by giving lectures. My! how he did lecture 
us! In the morning we had Happy Half-hours in West- 
minster Abbey; in the afternoon we had Walks Around 
London; in the evening we had Stately Homes of 
England. That fortnight was about the longest fort- 
night I ever remember; but, as I said before, I got my 
ticket half-price, so I couldn’t complain. Wal, we got 
to London, and I must say I was vurry much impressed 


30 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


by all I saw. New York City was vurry different in 
those days to what it is now, and London struck me as 
great. 

“Our party happened to arrive right in the middle of 
the London season, and it was a re-markably gay season, 
too. The German Emperor was staying at Bucking-ham 
Palace, and there were flags flying everywhere in his 
honour. Wal, one morning I managed to give Silas 
B. Tucker the slip. He was going to con-duct our party 
around the British Museum, and I had no particular 
hankering after the old museum. 

“It was a beautiful June morning, and to my mind 
there’s no place where a beautiful June morning shows 
up to greater advantage than in London. I remember 
I walked across the Green Park, and then I struck 
Bucking-ham Palace. Just as I passed, the German 
Emperor came out; he was on his way to the Guild- 
hall, and I had a vurry fine view of him! He wore a 
mag-nificent uniform, and he was riding a big black 
horse. And I couldn’t help thinking what a contrast 
he was to the people around. A good many of them 
looked as if they had never had a good meal or a good 
wash. But these little things didn’t seem to worry ’em, 
and they cheered the German Emperor for all they 
were worth. Everybody made as much noise as if it 
was the 4th of July. After the Emperor had passed, 
I walked on, and I walked on, and at last I came to 
Hyde Park Corner. 

“There was a block there, and I had to pull up sharp. 
I pulled up right against a hawker, who was standing 
there with a barrow chockful of the most beautiful straw- 
berries you ever clapped eyes on. Monsters they were — 
red and juicy and fresh. 

“The chap selling them was a cu-rious-looking chap. 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


31 


He had on wide pants ornamented with hundreds of 
little pearl buttons. And on his head he wore a vurry 
ex-traordinary hat.” 

Some one interrupted at this point. 

“A coster! Get on with the yarn.” 

“As I said before, the strawberries that fellow was 
selling were u-nique. They were good enough for a 
Rockefeller lunch — they were good enough for the 
German Emperor himself. Wal, I’d had a vurry long 
walk, and the weather was hot, and I was dusty, and 
I thought that some of those strawberries w r ould be 
vurry refreshing, so I said, ‘Just give me a pound of 
those strawberries.’ 

“The fellow took up a little shovel that was lying 
handy and I watched him. With one hand he grasped a 
brown paper bag, and with the other he began shovelling 
into that brown paper bag a pound of diminutive berries 
about the size of blueberries, if you know what they are.” 

“We call them whortleberries,” said one. 

“We call them bilberries,” put in another. 

“Wal, you’re acquainted with the size of the berry, 
anyway. ‘ Steady on ! ’ I said. ‘ I should like the straw- 
berries from the top.’ 

“I can see that fellow now and the impudent look he 
gave me. 

“‘Would you like ’em from the top?’ he said, taking 
no notice of my remark and shovelling away at the little 
berries underneath the pile. ‘I dessay you would like 
’em from the top. I should like ’em from the top. We 
should all like ’em from the top.’ 

“I’ve often thought of that fellow since, when I’ve 
wanted something pretty badly and been given scme- 
thing else.” 

“Sometimes,” said Dr. George quietly, “people covet 


32 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


the big strawberries and wish afterwards that they’d 
been content with the smaller ones. I knew a woman 
who made that mistake.” 

“Let’s have the yarn,” said one man, lighting his pipe 
and preparing to listen. 

“She was one of those pretty little women with blue 
eyes and fair hair — one of those women who want a lot 
of money spent on them to keep them pretty. Un- 
fortunately, her husband hadn’t got the money and didn’t 
seem able to earn it. He was a nice fellow, but he was 
unlucky, and it worried him that he couldn’t give his 
wife pretty clothes and holidays abroad. 

“He didn’t care much about these things himself, but, 
as I say, it worried him because he knew she wanted 
them. Still, they were very fond of one another — in 
their way — and the wife used to say that, when her Great- 
Aunt Maria died, they would be able to have all they 
wanted. Great-Aunt Maria only had a life interest in a 
comfortable little fortune, so they knew the money was 
bound to come to them some day. Well, Great-Aunt 
Maria died at last, at the ripe age of ninety-three. Of 
course, there was the usual delay in the winding up of 
her affairs. The winter Aunt Maria died I happened to 
see a good deal of both husband and wife. I was living 
next door, and I often used to drop in after my round 
for a friendly chat or a game of cards. 

“ One night, after a more than usually hard day’s work, 

I looked in and found them both very busy. I remember 
well how cheerful the room looked that night. There 
was a big fire burning, and I noticed a lamp with a pink 
shade which I had helped to make a few day? before. 
Being a lonely bachelor living with one old servant, all 
these things made an impression on me. The table was 
littered with maps and guide-books. ‘We’re going to 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


38 


Italy in the spring/ said the wife. ‘ Italy always has been 
the dream of my life.’ 

“I never saw her in such high spirits as she was that 
night. ‘Look at my cheque-book, Dr. George/ she said, 
waving a brand new cheque-book in front* of my eyes. 

‘ I’ve always longed to sign cheques and to have money 
of my own.’ The husband laughed, but I think, poor 
fellow, that he felt a bit sore that he’d never been able 
to earn sufficient to give her the things she’d always 
wanted. 

“A few days later, before I was up in the morning, my 
old servant came up to me to say I was wanted next 
door. I dressed as quickly as I could and went in. The 
case was hopeless from the first — double pneumonia; it 
took him off in three days, poor chap! 

“ I waited until the funeral was over, and then I went in 
to see her. I never saw a woman so changed — she looked 
ten years older. Looking at her, in her widow’s weeds, 
one couldn’t help thinking what a helpless little creature 
she was, and how much she needed a husband to look 
after her. 

“I found her busy writing, and for a few minutes she 
hardly seemed to notice me. The cheque-book we had 
all joked about the week before was lying on the table 
beside her. I sat down and waited. 

“At last she looked up. ‘Dr. George,’ she said, ‘you 
remember how we joked last week, and how I said I 
should enjoy signing cheques. I’ve just signed my first. 
Look!’ And then she gave a funny little laugh that 
made me go cold and pushed the cheque across. I took 
it up. It was for fifty pounds odd — the cost of the 
funeral .” 

For a moment no one spoke. There was not a man 
there who did not realise the truth and the irony of the 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


$4 

little story. There was not a man there who could not 
have brought out, from his own storehouse of memories, 
stories as pathetically true and as bitterly ironical. 

Three days later found Jonas Van Putten and his 
daughter in London, at the Waldorf Hotel. They were 
sitting at breakfast, discussing future plans. 

“We must leave for Spain as soon as possible,” said 
Sadie, as she carefully broke an egg into a tumbler. 
“With all these tubes and motor-cars, London is not 
much more restful than New York City.” 

Jonas Van Putten was so busy studying the money 
article that he did not take any notice of this remark. 
When Sadie repeated it, he disagreed with her. 

“London suits me exactly,” he said. “I see no reason 
why I shouldn’t take the cure here.” 

“You said Dr. Waldo Smith made a point of your 
being at a place where you couldn’t see a newspaper.” 

“Yes, he did sort of mention it, but I expect he didn’t 
know what else to say.” 

“And he also said that you might have a stroke of 
paralysis.” 

“Yes, he sort of mentioned that too.” 

“And he said you must have a complete change and 
no hurry and no worry. He did say all that, didn’t he? ” 

“You seem to remember what he said a deal better 
than I do, Sadie.” 

“It appears to me we’d better consult Thomas Cook. 
He has a bureau on Ludgate Circus.” 

This important point decided, Sadie permitted her 
father to finish the money article. 

An hour later they walked into the office at Ludgate 
Circus. 

“You want to make inquiries about Spain?” said an 
auburn-haired young man, putting as much interest 


CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


35 


into his tones as if he was contemplating the trip 
himself. “There is a tour starting next Tuesday.” 
He took up a leaflet and read glibly: “The party will 
visit San Sebastian, the Escorial, Madrid, Toledo, 
Cordova, Seville, Granada, returning by way of Madrid, 
Burgos, Biarritz, Bordeaux, and Paris.” 

“Will it take long?” said Van Putten. 

“Twenty-eight days; and, if you wish, you could 
include Gibraltar and Tangier.” 

“I don’t want to include anything — I want to leave 
some of it out.” 

“You say you start next Tuesday,’- said Sadie. “ Can 
you give me an itinerary? I’m sorry to trouble you.” 

“It’s no trouble,” said the young man politely. It 
was all in his day’s work to look out innumerable 
trains and answer courteously every question that the 
ingenuity of the average human being could devise. 
“Leave, by the io a.m. train, Charing Cross. Arrive 
in Paris. Drive across Paris. Leave the same evening 
for San Sebastian; dine on train; sleeping-berths will be 
provided. Arrive at San Sebastian. There the party 
will stop ” 

“About time!” ejaculated Van Putten. 

“ — will stop one night,” went on the auburn-haired 
young man, not heeding the interruption, “and will 
leave the next day for Madrid via the Escorial. A 
halt of half an hour will be made at Miranda for dinner; 
night in train ” 

A groan from Van Putten interrupted the spokesman 
at this point. 

“Of course we shall provide sleeping-berths.” 

“You can provide the berths, but you can’t provide 
the sleep.” 

The young man found his place again and continued — 


36 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“El Escorial will be reached about a quarter to five 
in the morning. After breakfast, the party will visit the 
Escorial — the eighth wonder of the world. There are 
eighty- three staircases ” 

“After a night in the train, I shall be in no mood 
to climb eighty-three staircases. It seems to me 
a mighty poor sort of rest-cure,” said Van Putten 
gloomily. 

“Need we travel quite so rapidly?” asked Sadie. 

“You could take the independent travel if you wish,” 
said the young man, putting down the despised itinerary. 
“Do you speak Spanish?” 

Van Putten and his daughter had to confess that they 
did not possess that accomplishment. 

“Then-, if I were you, I should advise the personally 
conducted tour. You’ll have no trouble at all. We 
arrange everything. If you don’t speak the language, 
I’m afraid you’d experience great difficulty in getting 
about. You see, Spain has not been opened up like 
Italy.” 

“That’s exactly why we chose it,” said Sadie. She 
turned to her father. “What do you think we’d better 
do?” 

“It seems to me,” said Van Putten cheerfully, “that 
we must give up the idea of Spain.” 

“Of course,” went on the young man, “if you do not 
mind the expense, we can give you independent travel 
tickets, and provide you with a courier.” 

“Why didn’t any one think of that before?” said 
Sadie. “We should be absolutely free and could take 
our own time. We want to start the day after to- 
morrow. Have you a courier disengaged?” 

“Excuse me one moment and I will inquire;” and the 
clerk disappeared. 





































LEO IN MOORISH COSTUME 




CROSSING THE ATLANTIC 


37 


A few minutes later he reappeared, followed by a 
small, dark man. 

“This is the courier,” he said; “he speaks five 
languages fluently.” 

“For our purpose one will be sufficient,” said Van 
Putten, who was aimlessly turning the leaves of A 
Flying Trip to Morocco. 

“Five languages,” continued the young man imper- 
turbably, “and he is a thoroughly experienced traveller. 
Excuse me;” and he went to answer the telephone 
bell. 

Sadie turned to the courier. “You’re Italian, aren’t 
you?” 

“Mademoiselle, I am from the ’Igh Halps.” 

Sadie was afraid her father might ask the whereabouts 
of that particular locality, so, to avoid interruption, she 
talked rapidly. 

“Your name is Italian, isn’t it? What had we better 
call you? Roselli is rather long, and ” 

“Perhaps Mademoiselle will call me Leo.” 

“As you’ve had so much experience, we’ll leave you 
to arrange everything as you think best. We want to 
see all that’s remarkable in Spain; but we don’t want 
to be hurried.” She indicated Jonas Van Putten, 
who was walking restlessly round the office, study- 
ing maps and time-tables. “My father’s had a 
nervous breakdown, and the idea is to give him a 
rest-cure.” 

Leo followed her glance sympathetically. “Very 
good, Mademoiselle.” 

At this point the auburn-haired young man returned, 
and Jonas Van Putten was at last given something to 
do. From an old leather pocket-book he produced a 
roll of dollar bills and proceeded to count them out. He 


38 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


did this with a doleful air, which showed clearly his 
gloomy anticipations with regard to Spain. 

Sadie answered his unspoken thoughts. “Spain is a 
very different country from the States,” she said; ‘‘but 
once you’re there, you’ll feel glad that you were obliged 
to consult Dr. Waldo Smith.” 


CHAPTER III 


LONDON TO PARIS 

Two days later, punctually at half-past nine, Sadie and 
her father arrived at Charing Cross. 

“American!” said a lady to her sister. 

“Do you think so, Barbara? Plenty of English 
women wear the floating veil for travelling.” 

“Yes, but not that funny tunic coat made of silk 
macintosh. I thought so,” — as she caught sight of a 
gigantic Saratoga — “American, as I. said! That’s her 
father, and I suppose the little dark man is her husband. 
May” — she turned to a young girl who was keeping up 
with her with some difficulty — “May, you’re not to let 
that bag out of your sight for one instant.” 

“No, Miss Hetherington,” said the travelling com- 
panion, shifting the green morocco bag from one 
at hin arm to the other. 

M anwhile, Sadie and her father, unconscious of the 
inte est they had excited, were engaged in greeting Leo. 

“I ’ave the tickets,” said Leo; “I ’ave arranged also 
for a compartment for yourselves.” 

Leo looked most important. He wore a little brown 
satchel slung across his shoulders, and in his hand he 
grasped tightly three books of tickets. The compart- 
ment he had selected happened to be next to the one 
occupied by the two ladies who had criticised Sadie’s 
appearance. 


39 


40 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“It isn’t her husband after all,” said one; “he’s not 
travelling in the same carriage.” 

The pungent, unmistakable odour of the sea informed 
them (before Leo had the chance) that they were near- 
ing Dover Harbour. When the train stopped the 
courier appeared, looking rather harassed. Every now 
and then his hand stole to the precious satchel, and 
when he felt it was still there, he smiled a grateful 
acknowledgment. 

“You follow me,” he said — “all will be right if you 
follow me.” 

“I feel just as if I was a little girl again,” 
said Sadie. She was so used to looking after her- 
self and other people that Leo’s attitude amused 
her. 

The courier wrapped her up in a tarpaulin, because he 
said that he had been told that outside the harbour the 
wind was freshening. Sadie looked out from the green 
covering with a lively interest in all about her. A few 
yards away a young girl was reclining in a deck-chair 
with her eyes closed. The pretty freckled face was 
white; the hat had slipped to an unbecoming angle; 
the girl did not bother to straighten it — she was feeling 
too ill. At that moment two strapping, well-dressed 
women stopped in front of the little huddled figure. 
They were evidently enjoying the boisterous weather; 
every movement blatantly proclaimed the fact. One of 
them touched the sufferer on the shoulder and she 
opened her eyes. 

“You have my dressing-bag, May?” 

“Yes, Miss Hetherington, it’s quite safe.” 

“We’re going to have lunch now. As you can’t eat 
an y> you’d better stay where you are. We’ll leave our 
wraps with you.” So saying, Miss Hetherington threw 


LONDON TO PARIS 


41 


down an inverness cape and two rugs and moved away, 
followed by her sister. 

With a sigh of relief the travelling companion closed 
her eyes again. In her lap lay the precious dressing- 
bag; one cold, cramped hand grasped it instinctively. 
When the gangways were put down, she struggled to 
her feet and made an effort to pick up the wraps and 
parcels. It was at that moment that Sadie went to 
her assistance. 

“ You've got too much to carry,” she said, in her quick, 
decided way. “Let me help you;” and she gathered up 
the scattered articles with promptness. “Have you your 
landing ticket? They’ll ask for that, you know. Give 
me that bag to hold a minute, and you can look for it.” 

May, feeling still somewhat giddy and with misty 
recollections of stories of perfectly dressed lady shop- 
lifters, hesitated for a second, and then, hating herself 
for her hesitation, complied. 

“This bag’s heavy,” remarked Sadie. 

“It is, rather. Gold-topped bottles are so solid,” said 
the other, as her hand explored numerous hiding-places 
where the missing ticket might possibly lurk. 

“People who want heavy dressing-bags ought to learn 
to carry them,” said Sadie, recalling the two capable 
women, for whom she felt an instinctive dislike. “ Don’t 
hurry; there’s plenty of time. There,” — as the missing 
ticket was produced — “you see you haven’t lost it after 
all.” 

This little incident did not escape the notice of two 
young men who were standing near. 

“That’s a nice girl,” said Edward Masterton to his 
friend. “She has character — it’s not unlikely that she 
has a soul.” 

The friend laughed. “I’ve heard rhapsodies from you 


42 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


too often to be taken in again. You’ve been searching 
for the ideal woman for ten years and you’ve never found 
her yet. Why?” 

Edward Masterton was unable to answer this question 
because he was pushed forward with the crowd. In his 
own mind there were numerous reasons why he had not 
found the ideal woman. 

Sadie, after explaining to her charge the intricacies of 
the Customs, went to look for her father. After a few 
minutes’ search she discovered Leo, who was standing at 
the door of a compartment anxiously scrutinising every 
one who passed. 

His face beamed when he caught sight of her. 

“ Mademoiselle,” he said, “I thought I ’ad lost you.” 

“ You’ll find I am not very easily lost, Leo. Never 
worry about me.” 

Van Putten was sitting in the corner quietly reading 
the newspaper. He looked up guiltily, and that look 
told his daughter that he was reading one of the for- 
bidden financial papers. 

“You know what Dr. Waldo Smith said,” she remarked 
dryly. 

“I know, Sadie, I know; but one must apply remedies 
with caution. If you set out to cure a drunkard, you 
mustn’t rob him of the drink all at once. I remember a 
pal of mine — Josh Laurie byname. He was a clever man, 
but the drink laid right hold of him. And his poor 
wife went to a doctor and asked his advice. ‘Don’t let 
him have any drink at all,’ said the doctor. ‘But I can’t 
keep him away from it, : said the wife. ‘Very well,’ said 
the doctor, ‘if you can’t do it, I’ll send you a nice 
gentlemanly young man and you can let your husband 
think he’s a private secretary.’ Of course, that doctor 
took Josh for a fool — which Josh wasn’t. When the 


LONDON TO PARIS 


43 


gentlemanly young man arrived the wife introduced him 
as her secretary, and Josh didn’t appear to think it 
strange, although they had never had a secretary in the 
house before. He was genial and pleasant with him, and 
they seemed to get on very well together. When Josh 
went off to bed the gentlemanly young man said, sort of 
innocently, ‘I sleep in the next room. If you want 
anything, just you ring and I’ll come at once.’ Josh said 
nothing, but seemed to be thinking it over. About two 
o’clock in the morning the bell pealed, and the gentle- 
manly young man got up and hurriedly went in to Josh. 
He opened the door and Josh, who was hiding behind it, 
fetched him a mighty clump on the head. That was the 
last Josh ever heard of private secretaries or fooleries of 
that sort.” 

“And what became of Josh?” asked Sadie. 

“He died, poor fellow, but he died his own way. 
There’s a kind of satisfaction in dying your own way.” 

At Amiens, Leo came to them to know if they would 
like a cup of tea. 

“I’m not British,” said Sadie, “and I can just manage 
to exist without tea of an afternoon.” 

This remark led to a discussion concerning the 
eccentricities of the English nation. 

“Look at them!” said Van Putten, with a pitiful 
glance at the people on the platform. “And all that 
hustle for a cup of tea which, as likely as not, is too hot 
to drink.” 

“It’s a religion with them,” said Sadie; “it reminds 
me of the Jewish Passover.” 

“They’re certainly taking it in haste,” said Van 
Putten. 

“En voiture, Messieurs! en voiture!” chanted the 
guard. 


44 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


There was a mad rush for the carriages. One intrepid 
individual swung himself on to the footboard as the 
train started. 

“A cu-rious nation,” said Van Putten reflectively. 
“ If the British ever reach the South Pole, they’ll run up 
the Union Jack and a notice that afternoon tea can be 
obtained there.” 


CHAPTER IV 


THE HOTEL SUPREME 

The Hotel Supreme, as its prospectus informed every- 
body, sounded the very last note of modern luxury. 

The manager, knowing Van Putten was travelling 
with a courier, naturally took him for an American 
millionaire, therefore he conducted them himself from 
the square marble hall, with its replicas of ancient Greek 
statuary, to an inner and more comfortable hall, where 
there were heavy Oriental curtains and deep saddle-bag 
couches, and small green mosaic coffee-tables, and from 
there he led them through a long corridor carpeted with 
the softest of carpets. 

He stopped before a white door with gold mouldings. 

“The Empire drawing-room,” he said, and threw open 
the door. 

Van Putten did not understand old furniture, and, 
after an unappreciative glance at the uncomfortable gilt 
chairs and the straight-legged tables, turned to go.. 

The manager, deploring his lack of artistic taste, said 

“This room has been very much admired by con- 
noisseurs. As soon as the foundation stone of the hotel 
was laid, we engaged experts all over Europe. The 
furniture is unique; I doubt if it could be matched. 

A Sheraton drawing-room led out of the Empire 
drawing-room. Van Putten found Sheraton chairs 
more uncomfortable than Empire chairs. 

45 


46 A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 

“I like a chair to sit in,” he remarked — “not to 
look at.” 

A charming little room, hung with panels of rose 
brocade, led out of the Sheraton room. On the satin- 
wood escritoire were small silver lamps of a curious 
pattern, shaded by rose pink shades; the table was 
littered with English and American and French and 
German magazines. 

“I guess this is the sort of ho-tel where they cheat 
you of your eye teeth,” said Van Putten, as they 
emerged once more into the square marble hall, where a 
nigger, resplendent in scarlet and gold, grinned a welcome 
at them. 

“What makes you think that?” asked his daughter. 

“The sight of that black man, Sadie. Coloured 
people are cheap with us, but from what I’ve observed 
abroad, if you see a nigger walking around, you know it 
means another hundred per cent, clapped on to your 
bill.” 

Sadie followed the manager up the wide, soft- 
carpeted staircase. Her step was a little less springy 
than usual. Somehow, this cosmopolitan palace op- 
pressed her. Money was written in large letters every- 
where. Money had purchased the beautiful statuary; 
money was personified in the elegant women who 
swished through the long corridors; money was wor- 
shipped by the manager. There was something artifi- 
cial about the whole atmosphere. Not vulgar! Oh no! 
Life had been so refined that it had almost seemed not 
to exist. 

Sadie’s bedroom was furnished in the same luxurious 
style. Leading out of the bedroom was a charming 
sitting-room, with English water-colours on the walls 
and the latest magazines on the table. 


THE HOTEL SUPREME 47 

Everything had been thought of that it was possible 
to think of. It was the duty of the management to 
anticipate every passing whim of every passing guest. 

Two green baized porters had unstrapped Sadie’s 
Saratoga; a pretty, smiling chambermaid had brought 
her hot water. At last she was left to herself. 

She unlocked the Saratoga and took out a filmy lace 
frock. Like many American girls, Sadie always wore, 
when possible, the neat tailor-made beloved by them 
and usually referred to as a “suit.” But she decided 
that, in such an aristocratic hotel as the one in which 
she found herself, she must certainly dress for dinner. 

When she was ready she ran downstairs; her father 
was waiting for her at the foot of the staircase. Van 
Putten had not dressed for dinner. He possessed a 
dress-coat, but he hardly ever had occasion to wear it, 
and Sadie had not been able to persuade him to bring 
it with him on his travels. 

Waldo Smith has ordered me a rest-cure,” he 
said. You can’t call it a rest-cure to dress up in that 
coat every night.” 

Leo watched Van Putten and his daughter disappear 
into the restaurant. Within he caught a glimpse of 
well-dressed women and men whose faces were as 
expressionless as their shirt-fronts. A Viennese band 
was playing to allow the diners to escape the tedium 
of talking, and Leo fell to thinking of the extraordinary 
way in which rich people spend their money. Suddenly 
he became conscious that somebody was watching him. 
The somebody was not a very formidable personage, 
but a wisp of a woman whose duty it was to guard the 
diners cloaks and coats. So interested was she in Leo 
that she forgot to give one of the patrons his ticket. 

With a “Pardon, Monsieur” she apologised for her 


48 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


mistake; but as soon as the swing door had closed 
behind him, she turned to Leo with a pathetic smile. 

“You think like me,” she said, carefully folding the 
snowy silk square and placing it with the opera hat. 

“I do not know if I think like you. How do I know 
what you think ?” 

He looked at her with something of the interest she 
had previously bestowed on him. Her thin, lined face 
told of poverty, as did her black, much-mended dress 
and her brown, hard-working hands. Amidst such 
luxurious surroundings the little shabby woman seemed 
singularly out of place. 

“You think like me. Is it not so?” she repeated. 
“All these people might have a chez-soi if they would, 
but they will not. Hein! que c’est drole! I who long 
for a chez-soi must come here every day. I leave 
Montmartre at six o’clock in the morning. You know 
Montmartre? — it is far from here. I return sometimes 
at ten o’clock — sometimes at eleven — sometimes, helas ! 
not until midnight. When it is midnight my children 
are asleep and I tread softly so as not to arouse 
them.”, 

“The day is long,” said Leo sympathetically. 

Tears came into her eyes. “Ah, Monsieur!” she 
said, “la vie est dur — la vie est tres dur.” There was a 
pause; then she turned to Leo with a struggling smile. 
“And Monsieur? Does he travel for M. Cook?” 

“I am conductor — yes. I conduct trips to Switzer* 
land — to France — to Italy — partout. Sometimes I 
have in my care one hundred people. Madame, in 
this world it is difficult to please one person — but to 
please one hundred.” He shrugged his shoulders ex- 
pressively. “And then there is the money. I carry it 
in a satchel — round my neck — so. But I have the fear 


THE HOTEL SUPREME 


49 


always of being robbed, and sometimes during the night 
journey I awake with a start, thinking that some one has 
stolen my satchel. For the moment I tremble, and 
then I put up my hand and feel. Ah!” he sighed, with 
relief, “it is there — quite safe. On these journeys I 
grow thin; but I return to my wife and my little Beppo, 
whom I leave at Clapham, and once again I become 
fat. Like you, Madame, I dream of a chez-soi; but that 
is for the future — perhaps. I will show you my little 
Beppo.” 

Leo felt in his breast-pocket and drew out a 
photograph. 

The woman looked at it with interest. The laughing 
baby brought an answering smile to her face. 

“Ah, Monsieur,” she said, as she returned the photo- 
graph. “It is the children who make life possible.” 


CHAPTER V 


SPEEDING SOUTH 

Van Putten and his daughter were sitting alone in a 
first-class compartment, speeding towards Spain. Leo 
had not been fortunate enough to secure sleeping- 
berths, and Van Putten, after trying facing the engine, 
and back to the engine, and lying stretched out full 
length, then three-quarter length, and then half-length, 
finally gave up all idea of sleep and sat bolt upright 
and wideawake. 

“Sadie,” he said, “this rest-cure will finish me off. 
You’ll have the trouble of embalming me after all.” 

Sadie looked at the comical little figure (wrapped up 
in the grey tweed coat) and then at the face, thin and 
drawn, but full of life. 

“You’ll just love Spain when you get there,” she 
said. 

“It’s the getting there that’s killing me. At this 
present moment I feel I should like to have a word 
with Dr. Waldo Smith. By my watch it’s now two 
o’clock. We’ve got another five and a half hours in 
front of us.” 

“Perhaps, if I shaded the lamp a bit more, you’d 
sleep.” 

Sadie got up and drew the green shade over the 
lamp. Then she sat down again opposite her father. 

The cold night air came in through the open window, 

50 





THE LAND OF ROMANCE 



SPEEDING SOUTH 


51 


fluttering the green roller blind and causing it to tap- 
tap in regular rhythm against the pane of glass. 

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap! 

The monotonous recurrence of the sound played a 
weird accompaniment to Sadie’s half-sleeping, half- 
waking thoughts. In another five hours she would be 
in Spain. She would be in the land of guitars, in the 
land of mantillas, in the land of Moorish mosques, in 
the land of Columbus, in the land of Cervantes, in the 
land of romance. 

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap! 

Would the Alhambra prove a disappointment? Oh 
no! for magic existed in the very sound of the names 
of its various beauties: the Court of the Myrtles — 
the Hall of the Ambassadors — the Hall of the Two 
Sisters 

These names have a tantalising charm compelling 
attention. 

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap! 

How glorious to see Cordova ! — Cordova with its 
marvellous mosque and its hundreds of columns of 
marble and jasper and 'porphyry. 

The cold night air coming in through the open 
window made Sadie shiver; she roused herself 
sufficiently to button up the collar of her thick serge 
ulster. How heavenly to think that soon — very soon — 
she would be in the land of waving palms, in the land 
of deep blue skies, in the land of sunshine! 

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap! 

The pictures became gradually more hazy — the 
buildings began to melt one into the other — the 
Escorial — the Alhambra — La Giralda 

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap! La Giralda 

Tap! Tap! Tap! Tap! La Giralda 


52 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Slowly, deliberately, as if to the regular ticking of 
a watch, the train plodded along to the measured beat 
of that one word — La Giralda. 

Sadie’s head dropped forward with a jerk; she slept 
— a smile on her face. She was awakened four hours 
later by Leo’s musical voice. “Mademoiselle, in ’alf an 
hour we shall be there.” 

She turned to her father. “Wake up!” she said. 
“I begin to understand the feelings of Christopher 
Columbus. In half an hour we shall be in Spain.” 

Five minutes later Leo reappeared. “I’m sorry,” 
he said apologetically, as if he was responsible for the 
somewhat extraordinary railway arrangements, “but 
I find we ’ave to wait two hours at Irun before we 
arrive at San Sebastian.” 

“That’s lucky,” said Sadie. “Professor de Castro 
says one ought not to miss the old castle of Fuen ter- 
ra bia. While Leo gets our baggage through the 
Qustoms we’ll breakfast in the town and visit the 
castle afterwards.” 

Outside the station they found an ancient vehicle, 
which resembled a hearse. It was drawn by a team 
of mules who sought to draw attention to their miserable 
condition by loudly jingling their bells. 

“Fonda Valencia,” said Sadie. “This is quite right. 
‘Fonda’ is Spanish for hotel.” Van Putten followed 
his daughter, while the driver, a melancholy looking 
individual, held the door open. The next moment the 
American was flung head foremost with great violence. 
When he had recovered his surprise, he looked defiantly 
at the huge plank of wood across the floor, which was 
responsible for the accident. “No wonder Spain hasn’t 
progressed,” he said. “Can you imagine any sensible 
country constructing a vehicle like that? ” 


SPEEDING SOUTH 


53 


“ Spain’s old-fashioned/’ said Sadie. “ That’s why 
we chose it for a rest-cure.” 

“If this treatment is part of the cure, I don’t think 
much of it,” replied Van Putten, somewhat ruffled. 

The Fonda Valencia was one of those hotels 
officially described by the guide-books as “less pre- 
tentious.” The door was open and they walked in, 
the man who had driven the omnibus following. 

“Sala de las comidas,” he said, regally pointing to 
a room on the right. 

“What does he say?” said Van Putten, in a loud 
whisper. 

“He’s only telling us where we are to have breakfast,” 
said Sadie. 

The Sala de las comidas presented a somewhat 
dejected appearance. It was a dingy apartment 
apparently much in need of the broom, which reposed 
idly on one of the tables. All the available chairs were 
piled, pyramid fashion, in one corner. Sadie, whose 
knowledge of the Spanish language did not allow her 
to ask for chairs, pointed to the stack. 

“Si, Senorita,” said the omnibus driver, who was also 
hall-porter and waiter, and with grave dignity he dusted 
a couple. 

“Can you speak English?” asked Sadie. 

“No, Senorita, no hablo Ingles.” 

Phrases newly acquired mercifully came to her aid. 

“Dos caffes,” she ordered, while her father looked on 
in proud amazement. 

“You’re picking up the language finely,” he said. 
“That fellow understood you at once.” 

Ten minutes passed; Sadie busied herself with 
Professor de Castro’s notes. Van Putten wandered 
round and round the bare, uncomfortable room. 


54 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Furniture there was none — with the exception of the 
pyramid of chairs — mostly broken. 

The floor was bare, the walls were bare, the room 
dingy and depressing. But the warm sunlight atoned 
for the lack of comfort. It was still early in the 
morning, so the sun had not yet reached its full power, 
but it made itself felt all the same. The light streamed 
in, transforming ugliness into beauty — changing the 
trails of dust into rainbow shafts of light. 

Sadie looked up from the little red notebook. 

“The castle of Fuenterrabia is very interesting,” 
she read out. “It was a favourite residence of the 
Emperor Charles v., and there is a picturesque old 
courtyard.” 

Van Put ten, who was circling the room for the 
twentieth time, stopped suddenly. 

“ If they don’t hustle with our breakfast, I reckon we 
shan’t see that picturesque old courtyard. But there’s 
no harm in reading about it.” 

Van Putten continued his walk; he was bursting with 
suppressed energy; by a superhuman effort he held 
himself in check. 

Another ten minutes passed. He could restrain 
himself no longer. 

“I guess I’ll ring the bell,” he said. 

But this means of expressing his feelings was denied 
him. There was no bell. 

“Milton makes an allusion to Fuenterrabia in Paradise 
Lost ,” said Sadie, looking up from the Professor’s notes. 

Van Putten paused in his walk. 

“He may have mentioned it in Paradise Lost,” he 
said, with concentrated bitterness, “but I lay he didn’t 
make any allusion to it in Paradise Regained.” 

At this moment the melancholy waiter appeared. 


SPEEDING SOUTH 


55 


He was so dignified that he made Van Putten feel 
ashamed of himself, and he said nothing. 

The melancholy waiter, having deposited an un- 
inviting-looking breakfast on the table, bowed regally 
and withdrew. 

“I’m hungry,” remarked Van Putten, struggling with 
a blunt knife and a tough piece of bread. “There’s a 
cu-rious flavour about Spanish butter. D’ye happen 
to notice it, Sadie?” 

“That’s one of the pleasures of travelling,” said 
Sadie cheerfully. “Everything is so different.” 

“ It is,” said Van Putten, and he sighed as he thought 
of bearsteaks and hot buckwheat cakes, and canvas 
back duck and soft shell crab, and other unprocurable 
delicacies. 

“The coffee smells good,” said Sadie, determined to 
make the best of things. “Where’s the sugar? D’ye 
see any sugar on the table, father? We must ring the 
bell then. Oh, I forgot! There’s no bell to ring. I 
wonder what sugar is in Spanish.” 

She opened the Spanish-English phrase-book and 
deftly turned the pages. 

“Here it is! Sugar — azucar. Why, of course! I 
learnt that word only yesterday.” 

She went to the door and called out, “Mozo!” 

“Mozo” is Spanish for waiter. 

Mozo ! Mozo ! Mozo ! 

The sound, with its fascinating upward intonation, 
floated through the dusty passage, down a short flight 
of stairs, until it penetrated to the kitchen itself, where 
the melancholy waiter, who was also omnibus driver, 
and hall-porter, and cook combined, paused in the act 
of scraping a carrot for the puchero he was preparing. 

“Mozo! Mozo!” 


56 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


As the siren’s- voice of old lured men to their doom, so 
the voice of a twentieth-century American woman stirred 
the soul of that Spanish man-of-all-work. 

He dropped the half-scraped carrot. And for the 
first time in his life, and for the last time in his life, 
he hastened his footsteps. He ran up the short flight 
of steps; the unusual exertion caused him to arrive 
breathless. A smile was playing about his melancholy 
countenance. 

“Mozo,” said Sadie, “azucar.” 

He did not appear to understand, and so she repeated 
the word, giving it that little lisp she had been told was 
so necessary. 

“ Si,” said the waiter, in his dignified way, “in el caffe.” 

“Isn’t it provoking, father? He won’t understand.” 

“Strikes me you’ve got hold of the wrong word this 
time, Sadie.” 

Sadie kept repeating “Azucar”; the waiter kept point- 
ing dramatically to the coffee-cups. 

Matters were at a dead-lock. Sadie knew a dozen 
Spanish words; the waiter knew a dozen English words. 
Unfortunately they had not learnt the same words. 

At last the Spaniard had an inspiration. 

He advanced to the breakfast- table, he seized Van 
Putten’s spoon, he dipped it into the cup of coffee, and 
then, slowly, triumphantly, he fished up six or seven 
half-dissolved lumps of sugar. These he deposited on a 
plate. Then he bowed and withdrew. 

For the space of half a minute Van Putten was 
speechless. Then he spoke his mind. 

“I never saw such a country for practical joking,” he 
said. “Mark Twain isn’t in it. When we arrive they 
set a booby trap for us in that ridiculous little car — 
I haven’t got over that shaking yet. We drive to the 




BULLOCKS AT WORK 




SPEEDING SOUTH 


57 


best ho-tel in the place and they show us into a room 
where they’ve taken away all the chairs. We order 
breakfast and they keep us waiting exactly one haff 
hour. When they serve us at last, they sort of pretend 
there’s no sugar. Naturally, we ask for sugar. They 
laff in our faces and tell us it’s in the cups all the 
time. No wonder Columbus set out to discover a 
New World. I reckon I should have done the same 
myself.” 

When breakfast was over they found there would not 
be time to see Charles the Fifth’s Palace. The Pro- 
prietor of the Fonda offered them again the hearse- 
omnibus, but Van Putten declined forcibly. Accordingly 
they set out to walk back to Irun station. It was a 
walk full of interruptions. First they stopped to watch 
some bullocks, who were dragging a cart heavy with 
masonry. The patient eyes of the animals peeped out 
coquettishly from beneath their red worsted ear-caps, 
and Sadie declared that they looked for all the world 
like New York belles going to a ball. 

“Cinco cento, cinco cento, Senorita,” whined a brown- 
faced boy, tugging at Sadie’s skirts. 

“ I’m not acquainted with the language, but cent and 
cento are very similar,” said Van Putten. “How much 
is a cento, Sadie?” 

“A cento is about one fifth of a cent.” 

“Cinco cento, cinco cento,” reiterated the urchin, and 
his hand stole into Sadie’s, while he rolled his expressive 
dark eyes. 

“Isn’t he fascinating?” said Sadie, as she gave him 
a penny. 

The imp took it without saying “thank you,” and 
immediately recommenced his wail of distress. 

^“That boy’s cute,” said Van Putten; “that boy will 


58 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


make his way. He says to himself, ‘If you’re daft 
enough to give me two cents, why shouldn’t you be daft 
enough to give me four cents?’” 

At this moment Sadie’s attention was diverted by the 
sight of Leo. He came running towards them, trying 
to convey his thoughts by the frantic movements of 
his arms. 

“Father,” she said, “there’s something wrong with 
Leo.” 

The courier’s pale face was paler than usual from 
the effect of excitement. “But vite, queeck,” he urged, 
“el tren he departs schnell.” 

In his anxiety he made a dash at three or four 
languages. 

“Why hustle?” said Van Putten; “I expect there are 
many more trains to San Sebastian.” 

“But this one arrives in time for the lunch.” 

“No matter. After our sumptuous breakfast, my 
daughter and I do not require lunch.” 

“You breakfast well in the town?” 

“Admirably,” replied Van Putten, with a sly wink at 
Sadie. 


CHAPTER VI 


VAN PUTTEN VISITS THE ESCORIAL 

r 

The Van Puttens did not remain long at San Sebastian. 
The town is gay enough when La Concha is promenaded 
by the wealthy Madrilenos, but, early in the year when 
the fashionable shops are shuttered, it presents a for- 
bidding aspect, and Sadie was anxious to be off. 

Leo was sorry. He liked San Sebastian; it was not 
too Spanish — in fact, now and again, he was able to 
forget that he had crossed the frontier. When he heard 
of the proposed departure he sat for a long time 
surrounded by maps and time-tables, and the deep line, 
which was the danger signal when a journey was in 
prospect, appeared on his forehead. Sadie came in and 
looked at these preparations. She knew the idiosyn- 
crasies of Spanish time-tables, and she sympathised 
with the courier. 

“Well, Leo, have you fixed up everything?” 

“I do my best, Mademoiselle, but it is not all cut and 
dried. We leave ’ere at two o’clock — we arrive at Miranda 
at seven o’clock — we ’ave ’alf an hour for dinner, and 
we are at El Escorial early to-morrow morning. We 
see the Church, the Palace — all there is to be seen 
— and we leave at one o’clock in the afternoon for 
Madrid.” 

“But we want to stay at El Escorial,” said Sadie. 
“Probably we shall remain a week or a fortnight. You 

59 


60 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


mustn’t think because we happen to be Americans that 
we wish to travel like flying machines.” 

Leo pointed out that El Escorial had not improved 
since the days of Philip il, and that it was an 
altogether second-rate village. There were two or 
three miserable fondas, and he was sure that Made- 
moiselle would regret it if they did not continue their 
journey to Madrid. 

Sadie listened quietly. “Have you ever heard 
that little couplet — ‘Woman convinced against her 
will is of her own opinion still’? Well, Leo, you can’t 
convince me against my will. I want to stay at El 
Escorial, and I’m prepared to put up with an uncom- 
fortable fonda.” 

The next morning Sadie stood at the corridor 
window and watched day break over El Escorial. A 
late fall of snow had softened the harsh mountain 
outline and freighted the air with an icy freshness. As 
she gazed, she was reminded of Bret Harte’s line — 

“Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 
From under their bedclothes of snow.” 

The huge grey palace could hardly be distinguished 
in the grim grey landscape. Slowly it rose, like a 
giant waking out of deep. First of all a faint pink 
stole into the steel-grey sky, warming it into life. The 
flush deepened, and presently what had been a formless 
mass took definite shape. By and by Philip’s Gridiron 
stood out clearly against a flaming background. 

The train stopped and Van Putten, who was fast 
asleep, was roused by Leo. Outside the station the 
usual hearse-like vehicle was waiting. On this occasion 
the American entered with caution. 

“If a man has a trick played on him once, we call 


VAN PUTTEN VISITS THE ESCORIAL 61 


him unfortunate, but if he has the same trick played on 
him twice, we call him a fool,” he remarked dryly. 

The ‘fonda’ was as uncomfortable as had been pre- 
dicted, and Leo reflected much on the vagaries of 
l eople who travel. It seemed to him odd that any one 
should choose to remain in this sixteenth-century village 
who might be enjoying the gaieties of Madrid. He 
pointed out to Sadie the rents in the stair carpets, 
and she agreed with him that Spanish women are not 
industrious. But the end of the week found her as 
enthusiastic as on that first morning when she stood 
by the thick yew hedge in the Escorial gardens, 
fascinated by the neutral landscape, whose monotony is 
broken only by the rosy almond blooms and the vivid 
purple of the judas tree. She was fond of watching 
the monks at work. She could not speak Spanish well 
enough to converse with them, but there can be much 
friendliness without speech. Brother Bernardino was 
her favourite, and fortunately he spoke English — 
classical English he had acquired from books. He 
had a saintly face, and his voice was so highly esteemed 
by the brothers that at the High Mass he was always 
chosen to sing the solo. Sadie never forgot her first 
impression of the church. The enormous size amazed 
her, but it was not size alone that produced the effect. 
Two years before, the immensity of St. Peter’s had left 
her unmoved. The ornate tombs and sprawling cupids 
had jarred on New England susceptibilities. In St. 
Peter’s, religion had suggested a pleasant compromise 
between God and Mammon — in the Escorial church 
one text is hurled at the beholder’s head. “Thou shalt 
serve the Lord thy God, and Him only shalt thou serve.” 
The icy wind that blew in searched every corner and 
made Sadie shiver; she was thankful to see Brother 


62 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Bernardino approaching. His warm human presence 
comforted her. 

“Come with me, Mademoiselle,” he said, “and I will 
show you Philip's chair. When the King entered this 
church he left behind pomp and vanity and abased 
himself.’ ’ 

Sadie followed the monk up a staircase and he pointed 
to a carved choir-stall. 

“There he sat, Mademoiselle, when he received the 
news o the battle of Lepanto. You see that little 
door? The messenger came through that little door 
with the great news. And Philip said nothing, but 
went on praying.” 

Brother Bernardino marvelled at this abstraction 
from worldly affairs, but Sadie could not help wondering 
if the King had really been able to keep Lepanto from 
his kingly thoughts during that quiet Evensong. She 
was always eager for a chat with Brother Bernardino, 
whose whole life was bounded by the Escorial. As a 
boy he had been educated by the Augustine Brother- 
hood, and one of his earliest recollections was the proud 
moment when he had been permitted to actas acolyte 
at the High Mass. 

He told Sadie of the incident, and in such quaint 
language that she had to turn away for fear he should 
see her smile. 

“I was at that era but a muchacho,” he said, 
“but a youthful boy. When I heard that I, Bernardino, 
was to be an instrument in the service of Almighty 
God, my heart swelled with thankfulness. But alas, 
Mademoiselle! pride hath ever been a stumbling-block, 
and, as the immortal Shakespeare hath said, ‘By that 
sin fell the angels.’ I was but a muchacho, and of 
small dimensions, for which cause my robe was for me 


VAN PUTTEN VISITS THE ESCORIAL 63 


too long. In the middle of the sublime service it was 
my duty to reach the Coro. Mademoiselle, you will 
observe the great distance that separates the Coro from 
the High Altar.” 

He raised an attenuated hand and indicated the long 
gallery, and Sadie nodded. 

“Mademoiselle, after many years I feel again the 
humiliation of that moment. My robe was, as I have 

said, too long — I accelerated my steps too quickly ” 

He stopped, almost overcome at the recollection. 

“I guess you tripped up,” put in Sadie sympathetic- 
ally. 

“Mademoiselle, before the entire church I was pros- 
trated — I was brought low.” 

When Sadie returned to the ‘fonda’ it was long past 
the luncheon hour. She ran up to the bare, uncomfort- 
able dining-room and found her father placidly sitting 
at the table contemplating the coarse cloth and some 
strips of anchovy. She smiled. Already the rest-cure 
had begun to take effect. Two months before, it would 
have been impossible for Van Putten to sit and do 
nothing. 

“I’m so sorry,” she said, “but I was with Brother 
Bernardino. Why didn’t you start lunch?” 

“I’ve had my first course, and now I’m waiting. 
They’ve let me s nell the puchero for the past hour. 
Haff an hour ago I asked them to be so kind as to let 
me sample it, but they evidently regarded my request 
as unreasonable.” 

“You’re getting accustomed to Spanish ways.” , 

“I am, Sadie. If I stopped here six months, I should 
loaf with the rest — it’s merely a matter of habit.” 

“I believe you’re beginning to like the habit.” 

“Wal, I’ve thought the last few days that perhaps we 


64 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


go too fast. We rush like express cars, and we kick up 
such a power of dust that we can’t see some of the 
thipgs we ought to see. The Spaniards are loafers, but 
they’ve done some mighty big things. This morning I 
climbed right away up to Philip’s chair, and I sat down 
where he used to sit, and I know just how he felt when 
he saw those men busy at work below. He was as 
proud as I was that day at the stores when I was made 
boss of the whole department. Now, if an American 
had bossed the building of the Escorial, he’d have run 
the place up in a mighty hurry. It would have looked 
handsome from the outside, but we don’t make our 
buildings to last three hundred years.” 

Sadie was surprised at her father’s enthusiasm. 

“If you admire the outside so much, you must come 
round with me this afternoon.” 

“I can’t do that, Sadie. When I think of those 
eighty-three staircases and no elevator ” 

“But we won’t go up the staircases — I promise you 
that.” 

While Van Putten was deliberating the proposition, 
the host entered the room carrying the pucherp, which 
is to Spain what roast-beef is to England. Cunningly 
composed of portions of meat, blended with vegetables 
and seasoned with garlic, it is palatable enough, and 
Van Putten, who was hungry, began to eat it with relish. 

“Well, father,” said Sadie, after a pause, “how 
about the Escorial this afternoon?” 

Van Putten thought a second before replying. “I’ll 
go, Sadie, if you’ll give your solemn oath not to drag 
me up those eighty- three staircases.” 

An hour later Sadie triumphantly marched her father 
to the great courtyard where the effigies of the Kings 
of Judah look down from their Doric columns. The 





COURT OF THE KINGS 


1 m 





VAN PUTTEN VISITS THE ESCORIAL 65 


midday sun shone full on the bronze crowns and 
sceptres, turning them to gold, and Van Putten’s eyes 
watered as he gazed. 

“This is the Court of the Kings,” said Sadie. “There 
are six statues — Jehoshaphat, Hezekiah, David, 
Solomon, Jonah, and Manasseh. If we were royal we 
could go into th? church by the big door — as it is, we 
must use the side entrance.” 

“Co-lossal,” was Van Putten’s sole comment. 

“I think we’d better go to the Pantheon next,” said 
Sadie. “The descent’s very slippery, so you must be 
careful. Perhaps you’d better take my arm.” 

Van Putten picked his way gingerly. “The architect 
who designed these steps didn’t know his business,” he 
said. “You couldn’t have a worse design, and I’m 
surprised at Philip passing it. Just think how awkward 
it must have been coming down here with a coffin. If 
you happen to trip up, it’s very hard on the other people, 
because one dare not laff at a funeral.” 

They stopped before the circular white marble tomb 
of the Infantes and Infantas. “It’s just like a gigantic 
wedding-cake,” said Van Putten. “If we were to cut a 
slice, I suppose we should find a king or a queen.” 

“No,” said Sadie, “Spanish etiquette is very strict. 
These are the princes and princesses who did not 
succeed to the throne.” 

“And they call Death the Great Leveller. He 
doesn’t seem to have been allowed to do much levelling 
in this country. D’ye know many yarns, Sadie?” 

“Brother Bernardino has told me a good many, but I 
don’t know if I remember them. This is the tomb of 
Don Carlos. I remember all about him, because he was 
so unhappy.” 

“Just like you,” said Van Putten, with a touch of 


66 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


fatherly pride. “When you were a little girl I found 
you crying one day because our chore man had got 
toothache. Did Don Carlos have toothache?” 

“I never heard that he had toothache, but he had 
heartache. He was such a lonely little boy. When he 
was sixteen a marriage was fixed up between Don 
Carlos and Elizabeth of France. But before he could 
marry her, Philip n. said he would marry her himself.” 

“I should have thought that Philip had quite enough 
to do looking after the building of this place.” 

“So Philip married the Princess ” 

“I guess if I had been the lady I should have had 
something to say ” 

“Brother Bernardino says that the Princess had to do 
as she was told, but the marriage made Don Carlos 
mad, and he and his father became enemies. And Don 
Carlos grew more and more strange in his manner, so 
Philip sent for his two nephews and made them his heirs. 
When Don Carlos heard this he went to his father and 
asked if he would give him the post of Governor of 
Flanders.” 

“That was a good move, Sadie, and just the way to 
stop family disputes.” 

“But Philip gave the post to somebody else, and 
Don Carlos became more and more moody. Brother 
Bernardino says that from that time he was so 
melancholy that he was almost out of his mind. On 
Christmas Day a priest came to hear him confess, and 
he told him that he had resolved to kill a man, and he 
looked so queer and wild as he said it that the priest 
thought he had better inform the King. In the evening 
while the Princess slept, Philip stole into the room with 
some of his favourites, and with the officers of the Guard 
and the Grand Prior of the Order of St. John ” 


VAN PUTTEN VISITS THE ESCORIAL 67 


“Just to give a religious touch to the proceedings,” 
put in Van Putten. 

“Brother Bernardino says no one will ever really 
know what happened. Some historians think Don 
Carlos died a natural death, but Brother Bernardino is 
sure he was murdered. He says that, long ago when he 
first came to the College, there was an old priest who 
was present when the coffin was opened ” 

“No horrors,” pleaded Van Putten. “This place is 
beginning to get on my nerves.” 

“When the coffin was opened,” continued Sadie, 
“they found the head of Don Carlos completely severed 
from the body.” 

They passed through the Pudridero, and Sadie 
informed her father that it was the Spanish Hades 
where bodies were kept for five years before burial. 

“Let’s be moving,” said Van Putten; “I guess I’ve 
had enough of corpses for one afternoon.” 

“We must just see the tombs of the kings and then 
we’ll have a look at Philip’s arm-chair and his gout 
rest ” 

“Did Philip suffer with the gout, Sadie? Now I 
like that little touch about him. Perhaps that accounts 
for his treatment of Don Carlos. Nothing like gout- 
for making a man irritable.” 

Van Putten looked with admiration at the neat rows 
of black marble urns. “Very cute!” he said. 

“There are twenty-six niches,” said Sadie, “and 
most of them are filled.” 

“Philip ii., Charles il, Philip hi.” — Van Putten read 
aloud the gilt lettering. “That one hasn’t any inscrip- 
tion; I wonder who’s buried there.” 

“No one at present. Brother Bernardino told me that 
that little black urn is for King Alfonso.” 


68 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“I thought the Spaniards put off doing things until 
the last moment; but they’re certainly in time with 
that little black urn. America is supposed to be go- 
ahead, but we do wait for a man to die before we fix 
him up with a coffin. Where are you going to take 
me next ” 

“ There’s a collection of pictures ” 

“No,” said Van Putten firmly; “no pictures for me.” 

“How would you like the Hall of Battles and the 
Goya tapestries?” 

“No, I don’t care about that either. I think I’ve 
seen about enough for one afternoon. I’m more tired 
than I was that day at the Chicago Exhibition. The 
Escorial is very fine — I don’t deny it — but it’s too big 
for my taste.” 

“Yes, it’s very tiring,” agreed Sadie. “Just before 
Philip ii. died he made a tour of the building, and he 
was taken everywhere in a carrying-chair.” 

“It puts me in mind of a sermon I heard when I was 
a boy. The preacher was very celebrated, and his 
method was to select a text and take a separate word 
each Sunday. The text he chose was, ‘Come unto me 
and I will give you rest,’ and the day I dropped into 
the chapel he had reached the word ‘and.’ Now, ‘and’ 
puzzled me. It didn’t seem a likely text for a sermon, 
and I thought he was cornered. Wal, that man got up 
and he sort of hushed his voice so that you could 
almost hear the folks breathing. And he said: 

Brethren, I don’t rightly know what to say about the 
word “and ”; the subject is too vast — too vast. ’ Now, 
this place is like the word ‘ and ’ — it’s too vast. If ever 
I come here again, I’ll follow Philip’s example and go 
around in a carrying-chair.” 


CHAPTER VII 


THE BULL-FIGHT 


The great hotel in Madrid overlooking the Puerta del 
Sol struck a luxurious note after the primitiveness of 
El Escorial. Sadie felt she had said good-bye to Spain 
— for the time being. This cosmopolitan palace offered 
no surprises. The dining-room was handsome, the 
people well dressed. 

She glanced at the menu and realised she had 
returned to Civilisation. The fish course preceded the 
meat instead of following, as is the Spanish custom. 

Sadie’s mind travelled back to the unpretentious 
Fonda; she thought of the coarse tablecloth lattice- 
worked with holes; she saw again the courtly host 
uncovering the savoury puchero with the air of a 
monarch bestowing a favour on a loyal subject. This 
last recollection struck her as comical and she smiled. 

“That girl’s enjoying a good joke,” said a young 
man to his friend at a neighbouring table. 

His companion looked up, suddenly interested. 

“Walter,” he said, “don’t you remember her?” 

“I can’t say that I do.” 

“D’ye mean to say you don’t remember the girl who 
played the Good Samaritan on the Invicta? ” Edward 
Mas ter ton pursued the subject with enthusiasm. “That 
little incident showed she had character, and character 
is what so few women possess.” 


70 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“It would never do for you to fall in love with a 
woman of character,” said his friend, with brutal 
frankness. 

“Why not?” 

“Because you w T ould come to grief. You’re a theorist 
and you think you’re a realist. There are a lot of people 
like you walking about in the world. You imagine 
you’re a Liberal — in point of fact, you’re a crusted 
Conservative.” 

“I voted Liberal last election.” 

“Of course you did,” replied the other, laughing. 
“Voting is the theoretical part of the business.” 

Masterton was not offended at these remarks. He 
and Phibbs had been chums since they were ten years 
old their friendship was built on a foundation strong 
enough to stand a few waves of disapproval. In reality 
he knew' Phibbs admired him immensely — so he ate his 
drnner with enjoyment and listened with tolerance. 

“Vou’re a theorist,” repeated Phibbs; “that’s the 
trouble. If the theorists would only take the advice of 
the realists, this world would be a jollier place. But 
they won’t. A theorist always goes his own way and 
blames somebody else. His disordered imagination 
constructs an idol, and for a time he’s insanely happy. 
One day you find him changed and gloomy; you ask 
the reason. He tells you he’s discovered his idol has 
feet of clay.” 

“I expect that’s true.” 

Of course it isn’t true. The idol has the same feet, 
but the theorist has different eyes. You take my advice, 
old fellow, and remain a bachelor. Be content with a 
harem of theoretical wives.” 

Sadie always enjoyed the first day in a fresh place. 
She had the same pleasurable sensation as when cutting 





A SPANISH STREET 


71 


the bull fight 


the leaves of a new volume. All book-lovers know that 
peculiar thrill — the delicious foretaste of pleasures to 
come. s the knife meets the resisting paper, one has 
a g impse of the hero and heroine. Only a glimpse — 
wherein hes the fascination. Later on both hero and 
heroine may prove disappointing. But that first peep 
suggests untold possibilities. Sadie felt the untold 
possibilities of Madrid as she and her father stepped 
mto the sunshine and hurly-burly of the Puerta del Sol. 

er rst impression was that every one was shouting 
at the top of his voice so as to be heard above his 
neighbours. Hawkers of all kinds obstructed the pave- 
ments, crying their wares with a hoarse persistence. 

a Cor respondentia, La Correspondence” chanted 
a vendor, darting in and out of the people with his 
flimsy sheets. 


“Bombita El Chico, Bombita El Chico,” roared a 
man, displaying some gaily coloured postcards repre- 
senting a favourite toreador. 

The dark, saucy face of the bull-fighter made Sadie 
shiver with disgust. 

What a fuss they make of these people !” she said, 
dare say Bombita’s portraits sell better than King 
Alfonso’s.” 


After awhile they were glad to exchange the noise 
and dust for the leafy shade of the Buen Retiro 
ar ens. Van Putten sat there contentedly, with that 
appy capacity for doing nothing which had character- 
ise im the past fortnight. He was almost ashamed 
to. a mit that loafiing is not without attractions. The 
mind has room to stretch itself. In the sunshine it 
asks and rolls and enjoys being tickled by little things, 
or the moment Van Putten was interested in a woman 
P a ymg ball with a small Spaniard. She was evidently 


n 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


his nurse, for she wore a large white cap and wide black 
ribbons which came down to the hem of her dark stuff 
dress. But she was maternity personified with her 
ample form and compassionate brown eyes. Once the 
child failed in a catch, and, with the Divine instinct of 
consolation, she gathered him up in her arms and kissed 
him ovei and over again. 

“You were right about Spain,” said Van Putten. 
“This rest-cure is doing me a power of good.” 

On the way back to the hotel they noted a change in 
the aspect of the Puerta del Sol. The business element 
had disappeared and the place wore a beaming holiday 
look. It brimmed over with laughter and gaiety — a 
gaiety so infectious that Sadie found herself smiling in 
sympathy. Hundreds of people rallied round the trams. 
Those who were fortunate secured places; those who 
were not waited patiently with a look of expectancy 
on their faces. 

“There must be a Royal procession,” said Sadie; “I 
wish I knew enough Spanish to ask about it.” 

“D’ye know the English for ‘toro’?” 

“Why, yes. ‘Toro’ is bull.” 

“That’s the explanation,” said Van Putten, indicating 
the signboard on the tram. 

She looked. There it was, in staring black letters on 
a chalk-white ground — Plaza del Toros. So a Spanish 
bull-fight was trumpeted from the housetops. Sadie 
was surprised. She had thought that such performances 
were discreetly hidden and that, although many people 
attended, they did not talk openly about it. But how 
different was the reality! These good-tempered souls 
did not look in the least bloodthirsty, but laughing and 
eager. The general excitement began to tell on her. 
Was it so very cruel after all? 


THE BULL FIGHT 


73 


“You don’t want to go, do you, Sadie?” asked Van 
Putten. 

She hesitated. “I don’t suppose we could get a 
ticket now.” 

“D’ye see that man there? He’s selling tickets — look 
what a crowd he’s got round him.” 

“Take a ticket for Leo — we shall never find our way 
without him.” 

It was done in a second. Van Putten counted out 
the required pesetas, and Sadie woke to the fact that 
she was clutching three slips of paper. 

In the hotel the same undercurrent of excitement was 
noticeable. The waiters were alert. They were 
anxious to serve luncheon quickly so that they could 
rush away to the Plaza. They joked amongst them- 
selves, and every now and then some one would walk to 
the open window attracted by the laughter and noise 
without. An hour later Van Putten, Sadie, and Leo 
drove away. The streets became more and more 
crowded. There were groups of merry girls — their hair 
covered with the strip of veiling which serves the 
modern Spanish woman as mantilla. There were 
young men with dark mobile faces and hideous round 
felt hats. Here a soldier — there a priest — everywhere 
sunshine. As they neared the Plaza del Toros the 
scene became more animated. Hundreds were gathered 
outside who, alas! had not the money to pass the gate- 
way. But there was an excellent entertainment pro- 
vided free. Not only could they catch their more 
fortunate brethren, but they could see the procession of 
the Alguaziles, and if they were lucky they might have 
a glimpse of Bombita himself. He was, indeed, a prince 
amongst men. Some one stated boldly that the previous 
season had enriched him by fifteen thousand gold pieces. 


74 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Ah! he was a hero, this Bombita Chico! So they 
chattered and laughed and pushed in good-tempered 
fashion. As Sadie followed her father, there was an 
admiring murmur of “l’lnglesia.” A little boy darted 
forward, fluttering some cheap little fans in front of her, 
but she shook her head. 

“Mademoiselle,” said Leo, “I think you ’ad better 
’ave a fan.” 

“No, thanks, Leo; I never feel the heat.” 

“It is not for that, Mademoiselle; but the Senoritas 
use them that they may not see too much.” 

The bull-fight was about to commence; the long 
narrow passage that led to the ring was almost 
empty; but the arena was a moving mass of people. 
Very soon the sound of drums and trumpets pro- 
claimed the entrance of the Alguaziles. For a 
moment Old Spain and Modern Spain mingled in 
picturesque confusion; then Modern Spain was swept 
from the arena. The band struck up a military march 
to herald the entrance of the fighters. On they came 
— mounted men with pikes, unmounted men carrying 
banderillas, and at the head of all, with a look of dignity 
on his saucy face, the favourite toreador, Bombita El 
Chico. In front of the president’s box the procession 
halted and saluted, while the crowd cheered. The sun 
blazed down, accentuating the vivid trappings of the 
mules and the gaily coloured cloaks of the footmen. 
The paper streamers of the cruel little darts and the 
scarlet cloths held by the espadas contributed to the 
orgy of colour. It was now time for the supers of the 
drama to retire, and they did so with old-world formality. 
There was a hushed pause. Then the president leaned 
forward. A shout went up. He raised his arm and 
threw into the arena the magic key that would open 


THE BULL-FIGHT 


75 


the door of the den. An Alguazil picked it up, but was 
not privileged to use it. With becoming gravity he 
handed the key to another of more importance. A 
death-like stillness suddenly descended on the place. 
Fourteen thousand people were anxiously waiting. 
Sadie trembled with suppressed excitement; her eyes 
were fixed on the open door. She wanted to look yet 
she dreaded what she should see. Fourteen thousand 
people waited breathlessly, and then the air resounded 
with cheers and snarls and hisses. The victim of this 
outbreak stood half in, half out of the doorway. Once 
he made a movement forward and then, alarmed at his 
strange surroundings, backed timidly. Instantly he was 
hustled into the ring, and, recognising that he was in 
the midst of enemies, he plunged desperately and 
charged the nearest of the miserable-looking horses. 
Sadie shivered. The man was down. Was he hurt? 
Swiftly the footmen surrounded the fallen rider. They 
pirouetted in front of the bull, distracting his attention 
by waving their cloaks, whose ample folds parted now 
and again, revealing brocaded breeches and silk stock- 
ings. Like courtiers they bowed and bent, backing 
gracefully as if in the presence of royalty. Once the 
bull marked one particular enemy. No wiles diverted 
him; he deliberately followed the bending, bowing 
courtier. There was an instant’s suspense. The barrier 
was in front of the man. Could he reach it in time? A 
false step and he would pay with his life. He waited 
until he was within a few feet of the wooden railing. 
Then came the dangerous moment. He must turn his 
back on his pursuer. Sadie watched — immovable 
horror-struck. A second later the bull crashed into 
the wooden partition, over which his tormenter had 
vaulted just in time. But the banderilleros were await- 


76 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


ing their opportunity. With cruel precision they 
planted their darts, and soon the bull’s magnificent 
head was decorated with multi-coloured paper ribbons. 
Sadie watched no longer. Every heart beat was a 
throb of rage. She felt angry with everybody, and 
especially angry with herself. 

“Look, Sadie,” said Van Putten, “here comes the 
toreador.” But, utterly ashamed, she looked down at 
the folds of her wdiite dress. She was glad they were 
going to deliver the poor animal, but she could not trust 
herself to look up. 

“He’s bungled it,” cried her father. She trembled 
violently. Why, oh, why was the espada not quicker. 
Then they would be able to get out of this terrible 
place. 

“Missed again,” said Van Putten excitedly. There 
was a sudden uproar. People rose from their seats. 
They abused Bombita; they discussed him angrily 
with each other; they groaned with indignation. Once 
again the toreador had missed his chance. The 
rumble of dissatisfaction lessened - — died away. It was 
succeeded by a tense silence. 

“He’s done it this time,” called out Van Putten. 

At last Bombita had killed his victim. He stood over 
the quivering mass. His handsome face looked white 
and anxious. He seemed doubtful of his reception. 
Only for one moment. Gratified shouts of “Bravo, 
Bombita!” gladdened his ears, and he drew himself up 
and smiled triumphantly. Still Sadie did not look up. 
She knew that thousands were applauding Bombita; 
she knew the toreador had commenced his victorious 
march round the ring; she knew the gaily Lapped 
mules were bearing away the dead bull. But she kept 
her eyes resolutely fixed on her white dress. When 











THE BULL FIGHT 


77 


her father asked her if .she would like to go, she got up 
quickly without saying a word. A gentleman sitting 
near lifted his hat and said something to her in 
Spanish. He wished her to understand that another 
bull would shortly make his appearance. Outside 
the people eyed them with interest. They thought it 
remarkable that these happy possessors of tickets should 
leave when the entertainment had scarcely begun. 

Reaction followed the afternoon’s excitement. In 
the evening Sadie sat in the hotel lounge, an open 
Tauchnitz in her hand. Three times her eyes travelled 
the same page without her brain comprehending a word 
— then she closed the book. 

“You look tired, Miss Van Putten,” said a voice near 
her; and, raising her eyes, she recognised the wife of 
an English clergyman whose acquaintance she had 
made that morning. “I thought Americans were never 
tired,” she went on, taking the vacant place on the 
sofa. 

Sadie laughed. She was accustomed to hear people 
generalise on the American character. 

“Americans are pretty tough generally,” she agreed, 
“but, of course, they get tired sometimes.” 

“They never stay anywhere more than a few hours, 
do they?” continued the little woman, pursuing her 
subject. “Now, I don’t think you can see a place 
properly in a few hours. Tom and I make a point of 
never staying less than three days. Tom says you 
carry away a more lasting impression.” 

“My father came abroad for his health,” said Sadie, 
“so we’re travelling comparatively s’owly. We’ve 
recently come from the Escorial; we stayed there more 
than a week. The Escorial is grand; don’t you think 
so?” 


78 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“ Magnificent!” said Mrs. Mills, “and it interested me 
to know it had formerly been a mosque.” 

“I don’t think the Escorial was ever a mosque,” 
said Sadie gently. “Perhaps you’re thinking of 
Cordova. You remember the Escorial Church, don’t 
you? It contains the Pantheon and all those wonderful 
tombs of the kings and queens.” 

“Of course I remember! It has the famous Tower 
la Giralda. I knew it had some connection with a 
mosque. La Giralda was the ancient prayer tower — it 
impressed me more than anything.” 

“But La Giralda is not at the Escorial,” said Sadie. 
“La Giralda is at Seville.” 

“I’m afraid I’m a little muddled,” said Mrs. Mills 
placidly; “but I shall know as soon as I look at my 
picture postcards. I’m making a collection for the 
children, and I intend to explain all the famous 
places. It will be quite an education for them. 
Foreign travel is an education. Don’t you think 
so?” 

When Mrs. Mills talked of her children, her memory 
became much more accurate. She detailed the veriest 
trifle. She recalled the dress she was wearing the day 
her little girl was taken ill with scarlet fever. She 
indicated the corner of the room where she sat when 
the news was announced; she recited the exact words 
of the village doctor. Sadie was attracted by this 
insignificant woman; she was touched by her intense 
mother love. To the American she represented a new 
type — a type alomst unknown in New York. 

Mrs. Mills was narrating how she nursed her youngest 
child through the chicken-pox, when she saw the Rev. 
Thomas Mills approaching. 

“Here comes my husband,” she said, “and Mr. 


THE BULL-FIGHT 


79 


Masterton with him. I must finish telling you another 
time. Don’t forget to remind me.” 

Mrs. Mills was too good a Christian to show any 
annoyance, but she felt it was hard that the Rev. Thomas 
should choose to interrupt them at that precise moment. 
She had reached the climax of her story, and she was 
obliged to stop suddenly. 

“Tom,” said the little wife, “Miss Van Putten and I 
have been having such an interesting chat.” 

Mrs. Mills was diplomatic. She thought the Rev. 
Thomas might possibly see that he was not wanted. She 
had a high opinion of the intellectual qualities of men, 
but socially she always found them in the way. 

“Perhaps we’d better not interrupt you,” said her 
husband, taking the hint and turning to go. 

But Masterton was determined not to follow. At last 
there was an opportunity of making the acquaintance of 
the girl he had admired on the Invicta. He asked Sadie 
how she liked Madrid, and she told him she had not 
seen much of it, as she had only come from the Escorial 
the day before. 

“Ah!” said the Rev. Thomas, with a long-drawn-out 
sound, “what a marvellous church that is! One can 
only compare it to St. Peter’s. You know Rome, of 
course, Miss Van Putten?” 

Sadie said that she knew Rome and waited. She 
felt the Rev. Thomas was going to call it the Eternal 
City — he looked the sort of man who would use the 
phrase. 

“Wonderful place!” he said, in his sonorous tones 
— “wonderful! the Eternal City! To my mind St. 
Peter’s is even finer than the Escorial. Don’t you agree 
with me?” 

“I agree with you, Tom,” said Mrs. Mills, who ha 


80 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


now given up all hope of being allowed to finish the 
chicken-pox story. 

“Nonsense, my dear! You’ve never seen St. Peter’s; 
you’ve never been to Rome.” 

“Haven’t I, Tom?” she said, not in the least abashed. 
“Perhaps you’re right — I must be confusing it with some 
other place.” 

“I don’t wish to hurry you, ’’said the Rev. Thomas, turn- 
ing to Masterton, “but it’s getting late. If you’re going 
to show me those photographs, will you get them now? ” 

Masterton said he would fetch them, and the Rev. 
Thomas explained to Sadie that when he got home 
he intended to give a lecture on Spain, and that he was 
anxious to have some idea of a bull-fight. 

“Mr. Masterton was at the bull-fight this afternoon,” 
he said. “As a clergyman I could not, of course, be 
present; but I shall be extremely interested in the 
photographs.” 

Just then Masterton returned, and Mrs. Mills began a 
series of inept remarks. 

“This is the procession entering the ring,” said 
Masterton. 

“What a wonderful sight! most picturesque! Tom, 
I really think for that evening we must make the front 
seats two shillings instead of a shilling. I suppose the 
Queen of Spain wasn’t there, was she?” 

Masterton replied that she was not. 

“I’m glad to hear that. But I thought the Spanish 
people insisted. I’m glad she was not there. Of course 
she has been so differently brought up. Oh! look at 
the poor horses! I’m very fond of horses; aren’t you, 
Mr. Masterton? I wish you would explain it all from 
the very beginning. It would be so interesting; 
wouldn’t it, Tom?” 


THE BULL-FIGHT 


81 


Accordingly Masterton began a graphic description 
of the bull-fight. Now and again he turned to Sadie 
to include her in the conversation. She felt very un- 
comfortable. After his eloquence she dared not say 
where she had been that afternoon. The man would 
feel such a fool, and she had often been told that an 
Englishman hated to appear ridiculous. She told her- 
self that she was only considering the man’s feelings, 
but all the time she knew that Masterton would be 
thoroughly disgusted if she admitted the truth. He 
was an utter stranger. What he thought could not really 
matter. Yet she realised that she had taken a sudden 
liking to this stiff Englishman, and she wanted him to 
think well of her. 

Mrs. Mills’ voice broke in on her thoughts. “I 
suppose the poor horses are killed outright?” 

“Not always — sometimes. It’s not very pleasant 
discussing the details before ladies.” 

; “Yet some ladies actually go,” said Mrs. Mills. 
“I can’t understand it; can you? I think it’s so 
unwomanly.” 

“I was glad to see there were not many present this 
afternoon. In the better seats there was a sprinkling, 
but the cheaper places were almost entirely filled with 
men.” 

“Thank you so much for showing us the photo- 
graphs,” said Mrs. Mills, rising to say good-night. 
“They’re very interesting; aren’t they, Miss Van 
Putten? ” 

“Most interesting,” said Sadie; “good-night.” 

Sadie went slowly up the broad marble staircase and 
along the deserted corridors. Her room was on the 
left, and as she paused, with her hand on the door, she 
noticed that the boots ranged outside were unfamiliar. 


82 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


She looked at the number of the room. It was 72, 
and her own was 24. Blaming herself for her care- 
lessness, she went downstairs again and found No. 
24. It was a warm evening. The French windows 
were open and she stepped out on to the balcony. The 
Puerta del Sol was strangely quiet. There was not a 
sign of the rabble gathered there earlier in the day. 
The vendors of the tickets for the bull-fight, the news- 
paper sellers bawling “El Tiempo ,” the hawkers of 
Bombita’s portrait, the soldiers, the priests, the Sisters 
of Mercy had all disappeared. Of that gay midday 
crowd none remained. Everybody had gone home. 

Sadie stood on the balcony for some time, quiet and 
thoughtful. How well Shakespeare understood Juliet in 
making her seek the quiet night after the excitement 
of meeting Romeo! This twentieth-century Juliet felt 
the same need of the starlit skies and solitude. Romeo, 
in this instance, was a very ordinary Englishman. People 
who did not like him had been known to dub him a 
prig. But it does not matter who Romeo is or what 
Romeo is, so long as he is Romeo to Juliet. 

Masterton was not particularly handsome or particu- 
larly fascinating, yet, by some curious natural law which 
it is always difficult to explain, he managed to occupy 
the American girl’s thoughts. 

Madrid vanished. Sadie was back again in New 
York, walking through Broadway with Mrs. Dobson. 
She saw once more the strong, sensible face; she heard 
once more the kindly, characteristic voice. “Mark my 
words, Sadie. When a woman’s struck by lightning, she 
knows it!” 


CHAPTER VIII 4 
THE RAG FAIR 

Early the next morning Sadie ran down the wide 
staircase and asked the sleepy porter to call her a 
carriage. “Tell the coachman I want to go to the Rag 
Fair,” she said; and the porter went back to his bureau, 
meditating on the madness of people who need not 
breakfast until eleven and who chose to rise at six. 
Aristocratic Madrid was asleep, but the toilers had 
already begun the day’s work. A small incident 
reminded Sadie that she was in a foreign country. At 
the corner of one of the narrowest streets she noticed 
about a dozen soldiers. They were walking aimlessly, 
and looked anything but soldierly with their baggy 
trousers and slouching gait. Crack went the whip — 
away went the horse, scattering the little army. There 
was an ominous muttering. Gone was the slackness of 
a few moments before — instantly the men became men 
of action. The driver urged his horse forward, but it 
was too late. One of the soldiers had leapt into the 
carriage and into Sadie’s lap. The situation was 
ridiculous, but she did not laugh. Stories of the hot- 
headed Spaniard flooded her mind. Had the intruder 
a knife concealed in his tunic? 

“Go away,” she cried indignantly. “Oh, whatever’s 
the Spanish for ‘go away.’ I learnt it only last night 
too.” 


83 


84 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Both men were furious and voluble. People when 
angry are often said to hiss their words. The lisping 
Spanish language is peculiarly suited for this purpose. 
Two quarrelling Spaniards hiss like steam escaping 
from a kettle of boiling water. Suddenly the soldier 
dealt the driver a blow with the butt end of his rifle. 
As he did so, a smile played about his melancholy face. 
Honour was satisfied, and, with a low bow to Sadie for 
having caused her inconvenience, he jumped from the 
vehicle with the same alacrity with which he had 
entered it. 

The Rag Fair was a mixture of poverty and gaiety. 
Sadie revelled in the noise and the sunshine and in that 
characteristic Spanish odour which is a compound of 
coffee and roast chestnuts with a dash of garlic to 
enliven it. 

“Senorita, Senorita,” mumbled a toothless old woman, 
dangling an ancient swinging lamp before her eyes. 
“Senorita,” — she held up three fingers to make her 
understand — “Senorita, tres pesetas.’’ 

With quiet persistence the hag followed, her demands 
becoming less and less exorbitant, and at last Sadie 
gave up the unequal struggle and took the lamp. 

The dingy surroundings made an effective background 
for the variegated sashes and shawls. There was all 
the excitement of a gamble in this strange market. 
Who could tell what treasures might be unearthed? 
There were old pictures on glass and lace yellowed 
with age, and damascened blades from Toledo, and 
there were crude modern paintings representing Anda- 
lusian beauty, the inevitable smile on the face, the 
inevitable rose in the hair. A swarthy man, sheltered 
by an enormous striped umbrella, drew 'attention to his 
tray of flat cakes. They were large and they were two 


MADRID 








CASTILIAN RROTHER AND SISTER 


THE RAG FAIR 


J 





THE RAG FAIR 


85 


a penny, and they served to remind Sadie that it was 
breakfast- time. Turning to go, her eye fell on a 
mantilla swaying in the breeze. She stopped, irresolute. 
A haunting perfume crept from the meshes. She 
wondered what dead-and-gone beauty had peeped out 
of those yellow folds. 

“Una bella mantilla, Senorita,” said the owner of the 
booth, deftly throwing the lace over Sadie’s broad- 
brimmed hat and draping it coquettishly about her. 
Sadie tried to disentangle herself from the folds and, 
looking up, was surprised to meet the astonished gaze of 
Edward Masterton. He lifted his hat, and after a 
momentary hesitation came towards her. 

“ Good morning,” she said. “ I wish you would explain 
that I can’t possibly give more than twenty dollars. 
This Rag Fair is so fascinating that I’ve spent nearly 
all my money.” 

The woman made no effort to remove the mantilla 
when she received the news; on the contrary, she 
smoothed the ample cape and stepped back in an 
ecstasy of admiration. 

“One hundred pesetas — no more,” said Masterton 
firmly. 

She protested that it was an heirloom, and that it 
would be impossible to match it in the whole of the 
peninsula; but when she saw the gold her eyes glistened. 

Sadie took the mantilla with some qualms. “ I’m sorry 
not to give her what she asks,” she said; “but I’ve only 
a few cents left.” 

“You’ve probably paid her too much as it is. I’m 
rather afraid we’ve lost your father — I don’t see him 
anywhere.” 

“No, you won’t see him. He isn’t here — I came 
alone.” 


86 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“You came to this place alone?” he repeated. 

“Why, yes. Is that very extraordinary?” 

“No, of course not. But it’s a rough crowd, and you 
might have been annoyed.” 

Although Masterton would not admit to Sadie that 
there was anything unusual in her going to the Rag 
Fair alone, he told Phibbs in private what he thought. 
Phibbs explained that Americans are noted for their free- 
and-easy ways. 

“I know all about that, but you must agree with me 
that the Rastro’s a very rough place. Every one was 
staring at Miss Van Putten, but she didn’t seem to 
notice it. When I saw her standing there with that 
lace arrangement round her head and an armful of 
rubbish she had collected, I was quite taken aback. 
Naturally I thought her father was there. They’ve a 
courier travelling with them. Why on earth doesn’t 
she make use of him?” 

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” said Phibbs. 
“You said she was a woman of character, and I said 
she wouldn’t suit you. She’s free and independent, and 
everything you dislike in a woman.” 

“She has a taking way; I don’t know when I’ve 
enjoyed a talk so much.” 

“Here begins the eternal struggle between the real 
and the ideal,” said Phibbs. “The Ideal was on the 
steamboat and played the Good Samaritan; the Real 
goes to the Rag Fair unattended. How are you going 
to reconcile the two?” 

Friendships are quickly made when the sun shines. 
Sadie did not ask herself why she found Madrid so 
delightful. She imagined the real reason to be the 
improved health of her father. Van Putten was a 
different man. He was shedding his cares as a cat 


THE RAG FAIR 


87 


sheds his last year’s coat. He had begun to see that 
gold existed in a sunset — he had never before had time 
to observe the fact. Sixteen hours out of the twenty- 
four had been spent making money; it now dawned on 
him that perhaps he had been wasting his time. The 
American market was no longer the pivot on which 
everything turned; he realised that, even before the 
discovery of America, the world had been a place of 
some importance. 

Masterton was shocked at the American’s lack of 
artistic perception. When Van Putten was taken to 
the Prado, he stood in the middle of the Velasquez 
room and surveyed critically the surrender of Breda, 
which he was assured was a masterpiece. 

“I’ve done the Prado,” he observed. “I’ll have 
a cigar outside until you and my daughter are 
ready.” 

“But you’ve seen nothing,” argued Masterton. j 

“You said this was the best room.” 

“Undoubtedly.” 

“And this is Velasquez’s best picture?” 

“Most people think so.” 

“Very well. Why should I look at the second best 
when I can have the best?” ' 

Masterton went in search of Sadie. He was such a 
genuine lover of pictures that he found himself stopping 
at every turn. Now it was to look at Titian’s master- 
piece, representing Charles the Fifth in full armour 
mounted on a black horse. Then his eye was caught 
by the rich splendid colouring of Raphael’s portrait of 
the Cardinal of Pavia. 

People stroll into a picture gallery and stand entranced 
before one of the world’s masterpieces, and they never 
think of the long hours of sketching and rubbing out 


88 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


and beginning again that have gone to make that 
picture what it is. 

In the Uffizi they stand spellbound before a Raphael 
Madonna, and they speak with a voice hushed to a 
whisper of the magic of the painter. 

Very few find their way to that other room in the 
Uffizi, which may well be called the workshop of the 
great. 

Here may be seen fragments of arms, and fragments 
of legs and profiles (which have been the delight and 
despair of the artist) sketched again and again. 

Thousands throng the galleries — only one or two 
penetrate to this Holy of Holies. 

And it is the same with human lives, which are in 
reality nothing but human portraits. One looker-on 
exclaims, “That’s a daub!” or, “That’s unfinished!” or 
(very rarely), “That’s a masterpiece!” 

God is the only one who knows — who can know. He 
sees the half-hearted beginnings, the rubbing out, the 
fitful spurts of energy, the doubt, the discouragement, 
the despair. He sees and He knows; and, because He 
sees and because He knows, one day He will not judge 
us too harshly. 

At last Masterton found Sadie. She was standing 
enraptured before St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and turned 
to greet him with a pleased little smile. 

“Isn’t she beautiful?” she said. “The picture is so 
real, too. Look at that beggar with his dreadful sore. 
You can almost see the plaster sticking to the 
flesh.” 

“You know what I told you,” said Masterton. 

“That I mustn’t admire Murillo so much. But I do. 
I admire him for walking all the way from Seville to 
Madrid just to see the great Velasquez.” 


THE RAG FAIR 


89 


Masterton smiled. “The fact that Murillo walked 
from Seville to Madrid doe^ not make him a great 
painter.” 

“No, but it makes me love him.” 

“I see I must give you up. You’re determined to 
prefer Murillo to Velasquez.” 

“Velasquez is too grand — I can’t forget he’s a Court 
painter. There’s something homely about Murillo — he 
reminds me of our New England folk.” 

“Like so many people,” said Masterton, “you’re more 
interested in the man than the artist. To my mind, the 
details of an artist’s life are of no importance. It’s his 
business to paint pictures. It doesn’t matter to me if 
he wears a shabby hat or gets into debt or quarrels with 
his wife.” 

“All those things make me glad or sorry,” said 
Sadie. “You’ve heard of Abraham Lincoln, haven’t 
you?” 

Masterton said he l ad an idea that Abraham 
Lincoln was President of the United States. Sadie 
seemed gratified that he knew so much American 
history. 

“He was one of our most famous Presidents,” she 
said, with pride, “but when I read about Abe Lincoln 
I often skip the story of his political struggles and the 
accounts of the grand receptions he held at the White 
House. I like to follow him right home — sometimes 
he was too scared to go back at all. His wife used to 
laugh at his funny clothes and his clumsy ways. In 
the eyes of the world Abe Lincoln was a very great 
man; in the eyes of his wife Abe Lincoln was nobody 
at all. That little fact interests me. Well, Mr. Master- 
ton,” she continued, after a pause, “you’re very silent. 
What are you thinking about?” 


90 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“I was thinking you’re unlike the girls I usually meet 
at dances and tennis parties.” 

“Am I? Why?” 

“Well, for one thing, you’re so unexpected. I never 
know what you’re going to say next.” 

“Of course you don’t. Why, I never know myself.” 





THE MARKET-PLACE 



CHAPTER IX 


A DAY IN TOLEDO 

Phibbs disliked getting up early, but as the carriage 
jolted up the steep streets of Toledo he agreed with 
Sadie that the early morning is the time to make the 
acquaintance of a fresh place. 

“Don’t these queer old streets look mysterious?” she 
said. “If we arrived later in the day we should find 
people laughing and talking and buying and selling. 
Now, everything is so still.” 

Silence hung like a canopy over the city. Did life 
exist behind those iron grilles, or was Toledo a city of 
the dead? Under the Gate of the Sun they passed, but 
there was no stirring — only the measured lap of the 
Tagus below- 

Some cities open wide their arms to welcome the new- 
comer, but Toledo is not one of them. To get to know 
her, you must climb many hills and go through many 
gates, and all the while the grim buildings frown on you. 

“It’s the most forbidding town I was ever in,” said 
Sadie. “Even the Alcazar perched up there seems to 
be standing sentinel and challenging one to give the 
password.” 

Slowly the carriage mounted; the lean, miserable 
mTes had to be urged up the pebbled roadway. Their 
pic’ful condition drew from Phibbs the remark that they 
dii not look as if they had enough to eat. 

91 


92 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Si, Senor,” said the driver seriously. “We give the 
mules plenty, but it is the high season now, and they 
have no time to eat.” 

Shouted at by their driver, the poor animals plodded 
along bravely, and in a few moments the grey gloom of 
the mysterious streets was exchanged for the wide sunny 
expanse of the Plaza de Zocodover. With the rapidity 
with which a scene is shifted on the stage of a theatre, 
the romantic background rolled away, disclosing a 
picturesque chorus. In the centre of the market-place 
was a stone circle. Evidently this was the favourite 
squatting-ground. Those who had wares spread them 
out on the broad stones, sunning themselves contentedly 
the while — those who had not looked on seemingly 
equally happy. It was a busy scene. In one corner a 
heap of emerald lettuces and flaming carrots and golden 
oranges struck a chord of colour. The produce was 
watched over by a man in the queer dress of the Spanish 
countryman. He had tramped many miles to sell the 
fruit of his labours. Sadie, struck by his odd appearance 
wanted to take his photograph, but when he saw her 
intention he turned on her a look of such dignified 
disgust that she pretended she was focusing a Moorish 
gateway. 

The Spaniard does not court publicity — he will run 
the length of the street to avoid the camera. This may 
be due to that Eastern influence which, like a golden 
thread, runs through the warp and woof of Spain. 

Sadie was enjoying the Market immensely, but after 
awhile she remarked that a day was not long to give to 
Toledo, and therefore it would be as well to go and look 
for the Cathedral. In Spain cathedral squares are 
unknown. You catch a tantalising gleam of a spire 
and plunge into the surrounding streets, only to find the 







LION GATEWAY 



A DAY IN TOLEDO 


93 


church door eluding you at every turn. You are 
convinced you have lost your way, and are preparing to 
turn back when you stumble against a mean doorway. 

It flies open, giving a glimpse of a rich interior, and 
suddenly you step from a poverty-stricken alley into 
mediaeval splendour. 

Van Putten cited this as another example of Spanish 
humour. “They build a church and block it up with 
streets,” he said, “and then they laff at the stranger be- 
cause he can’t find the entrance. That’s the sort of trick 
you may expect from a people who send a car to meet 
you without informing you that a beam has been laid 
across the floor.” He had never forgotten his inhospit- 
able introduction to Spanish soil, and frequently alluded 
to it. 

“Father pretends to abuse Spain, but he loves it,” said 
Sadie. 

“The beef is tough, the express trains walk, and the 
climate is so arranged that you always feel either too 
hot or too cold,” said Van Putten. “Nevertheless, 
there’s something mighty attractive about Spain. 

“If the country had nothing to recommend it but its 
architecture, the traveller would always want to go 
back,” said Master ton. They were standing in front 
of the famous Lion Gateway, and he immediately began 
to explain its beauties to Van Putten. 

“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Masterton,” said 
Sadie. “Father doesn’t care a rap if a building is early 
Gothic or Renaissance, but if you know any little anec- 
dotes about this Cathedral, he’ll just love to hear ^ em ; 

“My daughter escorted me around the Escorial, sai 
Van Putten, “and very well she explained everything 
too. What do you think I liked best? You’ll never 
guess, so I’ll tell you. It was Philip’s gout-rest. You 


94 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


might wade through a dozen books on Philip and you 
wouldn’t understand his character one haff as well as if 
you stood stockstill with your eye fixed on that gout- 
rest.” 

“Father had gout once,” said Sadie. “He says 
Philip the Second’s gout is the key to the Inquisition.” 

They entered the Cathedral, and Sadie tried to listen 
while Masterton explained the difference between the 
Renaissance and the Baroque, but all the while one 
thought occupied her mind. What did it matter if men 
called one period Renaissance and another Baroque? 
The marvel lay, not in the difference of architecture, but 
in the unity of purpose. Humanity had worked with a 
single idea — to glorify God. She looked at the red and 
white mosaic flooring, at the rose windows, at the statues 
crowding every niche. Before the gilded splendour of 
the High Altar she paused. She did not notice the 
bronzes or the carvings — she saw only one object. Be- 
fore the High Altar an old man was kneeling. He was 
poor and shrunken and shabby, and his hands were 
folded in silent prayer. He, too, was carrying on the 
work — he, too, was glorifying God to the best of his 
ability. 

Suddenly she was startled by Masterton’s voice. 

“Look at that Reja!” he said; “isn’t it horribly in- 
artistic? It’s what’s known as Plateresque. Don’t you 
think it spoils the place?” 

Sadie glanced at the gate he indicated, then back 
again at the kneeling figure. 

“ Nothing could spoil the place,” she said warmly. 
And Masterton, knowing she took but little interest in 
architecture, was surprised and gratified at her enthusiasm. 

They left the Cathedral and walked back to the 
Market Place, where they lunched. The hotel had a 


A DAY IN TOLEDO 


95 


chilly appearance; it was got up in cheap imitation of 
the Alhambra. But the candied fruits and quince jellies 
were so excellent that nobody troubled about the sham 
decorations. Over a cup of coffee they discussed their 
plans for the afternoon. 

“What does the Red Fairy Book say?” asked Phibbs, 
turning to Sadie, who was occupied with Professor de 
Castro’s notes. 

She looked up. “We must go first to the Church of 
El Cristo de la Luz.” 

“ Of course, there’s a legend connected with it.” Sadie’s 
love of legend always amused Phibbs. 

“Oh yes! there’s a legend; I’ll read it to you.” 

Mas ter ton was busy talking to Van Putten; he broke 
off suddenly. Nothing Sadie did escaped him; he, too, 
wanted to hear the legend. 

She began — 

“When Toledo was conquered from the Moors, King 
Alfonso entered the city at the head of his army. As 
he was passing the little mosque he was surprised to see 
the horse of the Cid suddenly kneel down. The Cid 
tried to make his horse get up, but he obstinately refused 
to move. Then Alfonso gave orders that the wall 
should be opened, and they opened it, and in the niche 
they found a lighted lamp and a crucifix. And the 
King commanded Mass to be said. So Mass was said 
on the spot, and ever since that day the mosque has 
been known as the Church of El Cristo de la Luz.” 

“Wasn’t the Cid a sort of thirteenth-century Raisuli?” 
asked Phibbs. 

“Yes,” replied Masterton. “Both men may be de- 
scribed as brigands with religious tendencies.” 

“If you propose to make a tour of all the churches, 
I’ll remain here and have a cigar,” said Van Putten. 


96 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


So they left him in the chilly museum-like chamber 
and drove to the mosque. The outside of the tiny 
building looked mean; they entered and found them- 
selves in Old Moorish Spain. The horseshoe arches 
delighted Sadie; she had not seen them before. Even 
horseshoe arches lose their novelty. Later on, the 
monotony of Moorish Art was to come home to her, but 
she never forgot the thrill of pleasure that ran through 
her when she stood in the toy mosque. She whispered 
to Mas ter ton — 

“What a box of a place! Churchgoing must have 
been about as unfashionable with the Mohammedans as 
it is with us to-day.” 

They went out, and a woman showed them into a 
garden, also small, where the roses were growing like 
weeds out of the -crumbling stones. 

“Now we must climb to the top of the Gate of the 
Sun,” said Sadie. 

So they clambered up the rough steps to the wide, flat 
roof, and looked down on the City of Gates. The rocky 
background stood out defiantly; underneath the houses 
huddled for protection. Toledo looked what it has 
always been — a fighting city. Massive Arab gates were 
everywhere to bar out the enemy. But against the 
siege of Time those strong gates had been powerless. 
Decay had crept in very gently, yellowing buildings 
once white, turning others the colour of iron rust. 

The noonday sun was scorching. As they drove 
through the quiet streets Phibbs railed against Sadie’s 
method of sightseeing. 

“We call this doing a place American fashion,” he 
observed. 

She laughed at the imputation. “The days of our 
life are threescore years and ten, and not three hundred 


A DAY IN TOLEDO 


97 


years and ten as you British imagine. There’s some- 
thing to be said for doing a place American fashion. A 
day will often leave a more lasting impression than a 
month.” 

“That’s a novel idea.” 

“If you see a person every day, you don’t notice that 
person particularly, do you? But if something happens 
and you have to say good-bye for years, you’ll remember 
the most trifling detail. Well, it’s just the same with 
places as with people.” 

They passed through the old Jewish quarter and 
went into the Synagogue. Phibbs and Sadie talked in 
whispers while Masterton’s shortsighted eyes were busy 
examining the azulejos work. Sadie opened the Red 
Fairy Book, and read again the tragedy of Pedro the 
Cruel and Blanche of Bourbon. The unhappy Queen 
had taken refuge in the church, and wats believed to have 
hidden behind one of the pillars that Masterton was 
examining so critically. She told the story to Phibbs 
while they $vaitjed. 

“Spanish history is depressing,” he said. “I’m glad 
I live in the twentieth century.” 

“I’m glad I live in the twentieth century,” she replied, 
“and I’^n sorry I shan’t be alive in the twenty-first.” 

Masterton came slowly towards them. “The detail 
of the work is wonderful — you have not half seen it. 
Those horseshoe arches are magnificent, and so are the 
frieze and triforium.” 

“Masterton is mad on architecture,” said Phibbs. 
“What he enjoys more than anything is to come across 
a patchwork building with a hundred different styles. 
All architectural maniacs have that failing. That’s 
tenth-century work, one will say. That arabesque is 
later; that leaf does not really belong to that pome- 


98 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


granate — it was added. Once I took an enthusiastic 
friend to Westminster Abbey. Naturally, I expected 
him to be enraptured, but he wasn’t. He told me 
Westminster did not interest him — the style was too 
uniform.” 

They left the Synagogue and drove to San Juan de 
los Reyes, where the chains hang still on the granite 
walls — a gloomy reminder of the protracted struggle 
between Moslem and Christian. 

It was getting late, so they decided not to go into the 
church, but to walk round the cloisters. Phibbs, thank- 
ful to have escaped the church, was in the mood to 
appreciate the cloisters. Sadie, too, was delighted. 

“I never expected anything so dainty,” she said. 
“Toledo is gaunt and has been built by giants, but 
these cloisters are the work of the fairies.” 

They drove back to the hotel for tea, and then they 
said good-bye to the City of Gates. The air of mystery 
which had hung over Toledo when they arrived, 
returned with approaching night. A ghostly stillness 
prevailed — a stillness that seemed to eat into every- 
thing. The setting sun lent a beam of light to a barred 
window and made the bars appear red-hot. Only for a 
moment! Then the flame went out, leaving blackness. 
The tired mules stopped to rest after the long descent, 
and Sadie turned her head for a last look. In the 
waning light Toledo stood out proud and unap- 
proachable. 


TOLEDO 



THE CLOISTERS OF SAN JUAN 



THE GATE OF THE SUN 



CHAPTER X 




THE MOUNTING OF THE GUARD 

A stranger in Madrid is sure to find his way to the 
Palace Square to see the Mounting of the Guard. Like 
much that is Spanish, the ceremony is leisurely in the 
extreme. Sadie and Masterton arrived one morning 
before the clock struck ten. Half an hour went by — 
nothing happened. But the delay did not trouble Sadie. 
It was pleasant to idle amongst the idlers. It was 
pleasant to watch lazily an invisible hand open a 
window in the great Palace; it was pleasant to note the 
yellow light play about the glossy coat of a restive 
chestnut; it was pleasant to feel the April sun warm 
one through and through. The little crowd was not 
impatient. Characteristically Southern, it was content 
with little. 

At intervals a momentary excitement occurred. A 
handful of soldiers would ride into the Square and, 
halting in front of the Palace, give the grand salute. On 
these occasions the fringe of people invariably surged 
forward. Sadie was amused at a lively dialogue 
between a small soldier in a large uniform and a very 
grubby, very ragged, very impudent little beggar boy. 
The imp was ordered to stand back, but he squared 
his ragged shoulders defiantly and pushed forward, his 
wicked little brown face shining with delight at his 
boldness. The military made a pitiful bid for authority, 
99 


100 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


but eventually the soldier shuffled off, leaving the boy 
triumphant. 

Mas ter ton was amazed. 

“What a lack of discipline!” he exclaimed. “Such 
an incident would be impossible in England! I can’t 
imagine a London street arab cheeking a Life- 
guardsman.” 

“The clothes are at fault,” said Sadie. “Look at 
that soldier. How can you expect a man to be obeyed 
when he wears baggy trousers?” 

The sweet, plaintive strains of the Spanish National 
Anthem were wafted through the air. Masterton asked 
Sadie if she liked the melody. 

“ It’s pretty enough, but it lacks fire. ‘Yankee Doodle ’ 
and the ‘ Stars and Stripes ’ make me feel I want to be up 
and doing, and the ‘ Marseillaise ’ would rouse me if I was 
dying. But this music’s enervating and melancholy.” 

Half-past eleven struck. She turned to Masterton. 

“This ceremony is very long. There’s no beginning 
and no end.” 

A noonday weariness was beginning to infect the 
soldiers; they went through the manoeuvres listlessly. 
One man leant heavily on his rifle; his head fell for- 
ward on his breast; he nodded. Sadie looked at him 
sympathetically. 

“Poor fellow! he’s very sleepy,” she said. 

“No wonder! The Mounting of the Guard is a 
tedious business.” 

Twelve o’clock struck. 

“Ihe Armoury closes at half-past,” said Masterton; 
“we’d better go.” 

They crossed the Square; the brooding, melancholy 
music followed them into the Armoury. 

Sadie was not impressed with the glittering array. 


MADRID 



THE MOUNTING OF THE GUARD 










THE MOUNTING OF THE GUARD 101 

fe 

“Armour is too impersonal,” she said. “ There’s a 
ticket on that suit saying it once belonged to 
Philip II. Can you imagine him wearing it? I can’t. 
He’s associated in my mind with long prayers and that 
uncomfortable little cell in the Escorial.” 

They walked round the cases in the customary aim- 
less fashion. Before the magnificence of Charles v. they 
stopped. 

“I said just now that armour was impersonal,” 
said Sadie, “but I was wrong. Any one can see that 
Charles v. was intensely vain. A plain serviceable suit 
wouldn’t content him. He must have dozens — each one 
more elaborate than the last. Isn’t it characteristic of 
the man?” 

“You remember Titian’s picture in the Prado?” 

“You mean the one where the Emperor is painted 
very large and the Almighty very small? Yes; that’s 
characteristic too.” 

The strong April wind blew in through the open 
window, fluttering the tattered remnant of a Moorish 
banner. The surroundings were warlike. There was 
every conceivable weapon for killing, from a thirteenth- 
century sword to an eighteenth-century breech-loader. 
A grim collection! Javelins and muskets and daggers 
and battle-axes and deadly blades from Toledo. Yet, 
oddly enough, the atmosphere was peaceful. The 
official in charge was awaiting the moment when he 
would be able to tell the remaining stragglers it was 
closing time. In the meanwhile he was agreeably 
occupied tickling a huge tortoise-shell tabby. His 
thoughts were pleasant. They were chiefly concerned 
with the puchero his wife was preparing for the midday 
meal. The cat, by a species of feline telepathy, entered 
thoroughly into his feelings and rolled on the dusty floor, 


102 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


loudly purring her sympathy. The half-hour strucks 
He promptly ceased stroking the cat and moved toward. 
Masterton and Sadie, who were the only visitors left. 

He shook the bunch of keys significantly. Sadie 
turned to Masterton. 

“I know it’s closing time; but I can’t go until I find 
Gonzalo’s sword.” 

“You’ve seen enough swords this morning to last you 
a lifetime.” 

“Y'es, but not Gonzalo’s.” 

“Probably it looks exactly like all the others. We 
really ought to go; the man is waiting to lock up.” 

But Sadie was not to be put off so easily. She plunged 
into Spanish, and tried to convey what she wanted. 
Immediately the official was transformed into the knight. 
What matter the frizzling puchero. The lady was 
anxious to see the sword of the great Gonzaio. He 
understood very little English, but he understood enough 
for that. Straight up to the glass case he marched and 
pointed to the weapon with pride. 

“ ’E belong to Gonzaio di Cordova — El Gran Capitan.” 

Sadie thanked him and followed Masterton out. He 
immediately asked why Gonzalo’s sword was so attractive. 

“It isn’t the sword — it’s the man.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about him.” 

“He was a famous general who fought for Ferdinand 
and Isabella against the Moors. In a single battle he 
lost so heavily he was urged to retreat. And d’ye know 
what he said?” 

“I haven’t the least idea.” 

“He said, ‘I would rather take two steps forward into 
my grave than one backward to win a hundred years of 
life.’ I think Gonzaio was just fine — he always puts me 
in mind of Teddy Roosevelt.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THROUGH CORDOVA TO SEVILLE 

The train jolted slowly into Cordova station. It was 
early in the morning — so early that the air still held the 
chilliness of night. A sweet smell came stealing in at 
the open window. Very gently, very insidiously the 
fragrance crept into the compartment. Van Putten 
woke up and yawned. Then he sniffed. “Vurry 
pleasant!” he said, and sniffed again. “What is it?” 

Sadie told him it was the smell of the orange flower. 
The perfume was everywhere. It greeted them at the 
railway station; it hung about the pathway that led to 
the town; it enveloped Cordova. In a corner of the 
Court of Oranges they sat down and watched the sun 
gradually gain in power until it pierced the short, bushy 
trees where the golden fruit gleamed. Loungers from 
the town stood about the fountain, and women passed 
to and fro carrying their brown water-pots to be filled. 
The sky was a vivid blue, and everything stood out with 
the hard brilliance of the South. 

The Oriental repose of the Court of Oranges enchains 
the senses with something of the potency of a narcotic. 

The warmth, the colour, the sweet heavy odour of the 
orange flower affected even the active brain of Van 
Putten. 

Now and again there was the sound of a light splash, 
which told that another water-jar had been filled at one 
103 


104 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


of the five fountains. Afterwards the woman would 
steal away, slowly, deliberately, with stately step, the 
jar poised lightly on her shoulder. 

“She doesn’t hustle much,” said Van Putten, watching 
with interest the leisurely movements of a raven-haired 
goddess. “I reckon life doesn’t move very fahst in 
these parts.” 

Mas ter ton looked up with a slight irritation. He was 
becoming sincerely attached to Sadie, he was prepared 
thankfully to accept Van Putten as his father-in-law, 
but it annoyed him to hear fast pronounced “fahst.” It 
was a small thing, but it jarred on his critical sense. 

“It’s cu-rious to think,” went on Van Putten, “that 
Spain was a great country before the U-nited States 
were thought of. And now look at the States and look 
at Spain! A hundred years ago New York City was 
a small Dutch town with a population under 25,000. 
About that time Jacob As tor landed with his stock of 
violins. My great-grandfather went ashore by the 
same boat. The population of the United States was 
two and a half millions. Now we’ve eighty millions of 
inhabitants. That’s progress.” 

He turned to Masterton for information. “Was 
Cordova ever what one might term a flourishing city?” 

Masterton told him that formerly there were univer- 
sities open to all the civilised world, and that the 
palaces and buildings had stretched for miles along the 
banks of the Guadalquivir. 

“You don’t say so,” replied Van Putten. “And 
now the city’s de-generated into a fifth-rate township. 
Wal, the history of nations is pre-cisely the same as the 
history of individuals. You know what we Yankees 
say. It’s only three generations from shirt-sleeves to 
shirt-sleeves.” 


CORDOVA 












COURT OK ORANGES 






THROUGH CORDOVA TO SEVILLE 105 


Phibbs lay back contentedly — his straw hat pulled 
well over his eyes. He did not join in the conversa- 
tion of the others. At that moment, merely to breathe 
and to stretch out his long limbs and to feel the hot 
sun scorching the back of his light flannel coat was 
pleasure enough. 

But Van Putten could not be still very long. He 
got up. 

“I guess we’d better do the Mosque,” he said. 

They wa ked round to the North Entrance and 
entered by the Gate of Pardon. 

No Romantic has ever done justice to Cordova 
Mosque. Many have tried, many in the course of 
years will probably try again, but all must fail. 

One may describe the hundreds of columns of 
marble and porphyry and jasper, but will that convey 
any idea of the spirit of the place? In this centre of 
prayer Islam breathes and lives and reigns. When one 
of the Faithful unrolls his prayer-mat and humbly 
kneels, no limit is set to his imagination. 

These magnificent columns, stretching away and 
away until they appear to lose themselves in an infinity 
of space, suggest Eternity as no Christian place of 
worship has ever been able to do. In that columned 
silence the little party became suddenly silent. In- 
stinctively Van Putten lowered his voice, and for once 
Master ton forgot to comment on the architecture. 

Outside the Mosque a crowd of people thronged 
the cobble-stone alleys. Cordova might be a dying 
city, but it was dying hard. It was a fete day and the 
place was alive with young girls. With arms linked, 
they patrolled the narrow roadway, chattering and 
laughing and casting shy, inquiring looks at the 
strangers. Almost every one wore the inevitable rose 


106 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


tucked in the bodice or pinned in the hair. This 
coquetry said plainly, “Cordova is old — it has had its 
day. It was once rich — it is now poor. But look at 
us! We are full of life! We are young!” 

The same afternoon they continued the journey to 
Seville. Originally Masterton had intended staying in 
Cordova to study the architecture of the Mosque, but 
he told Phibbs that as they had come across such 
pleasant travelling companions they might as well go 
on together. 

The journey was long and hot. The flimsy green 
blind was powerless to keep the sun out, and the burn- 
ing rays poured into the compartment, blistering the 
paint of the woodwork. The train crawled on its way, 
while Van Putten abused the snail’s pace and discussed 
American railroads with Phibbs, who was trying hard 
to keep awake. After creeping for many miles along 
the right bank of the Guadalquivir the train suddenly 
came to a standstill. 

“La Posadas! La Posadas!” called out a porter, 
running up and down the deserted platform. No one 
appeared to be stirring. Most Spaniards prefer to take 
even short journeys by night. 

“Have we got there?” inquired Van Putten, suddenly 
breaking off in his eulogy on American railroads. 

“We shan’t be there for two hours at least,” said 
Sadie. 

After a delay of twenty minutes the train moved 
slowly on. The district they were passing through 
was very fertile. Gleaming orange groves contrasted 
vividly with woods of sad-coloured olive trees, and the 
sun blazed down on fruitful grain fields. 

Now and again Van Putten would look at his watch 
and exclaim — 


CORDOVA 



THE BELLE OF CORDOVA 



THE MARKET-PLACE 



THROUGH CORDOVA TO SEVILLE 107 


“The railroad system in Spain is a disgrace to any 
country that calls itself civilised!” 

More than two hours had passed, yet Seville was not 
in sight. Once more the train came to a standstill. 

“We’d better collect our hand-baggage,” said Van 
Putten, starting up. 

“Tocina! Tocina!” chanted a musical voice, and 
Van Putten with grim determination sat down again. 

Another half-hour dragged on. Every one was 
dozing except Sadie. She was looking out of the 
window. In the distance lay Seville, the Cathedral 
towering above the other buildings. 

The train jolted to a standstill. A welcome sound 
fell on Sadie’s ear. 

“Sevilla! Sevilla! Sevilla!” 

They had arrived at last. 

A two-horse omnibus upholstered in red velvet 
awaited them at the station. 

“I’m always careful of these cars,” said Van Putten, 
as he got in cautiously. 

Leo asked for everybody’s keys, and with a troubled 
countenance went off to look after the baggage. 
Apparently there was no one else for the Hotel Madrid. 
People were already beginning to say it was too hot 
for Seville. The Annual Fair was over, and after the 
Annual Fair the town usually empties. 

Seville struck Sadie as a place of blinding sunshine. 
Coming as they did, straight from Madrid, the change 
was startling. The bleakness, the newness, the ugliness 
of Madrid had vanished as if by magic. There was an 
alluring softness, and stillness, and sweetness in the air. 
Not much of the town can be seen from the railway 
station, but the little that was visible made Sadie long 
to see more. 


108 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


A series of thumps overhead told them that Leo had 
secured the luggage. After a further delay the courier 
appeared with the worn, weary expression which told of 
spirited encounters with dilatory Spanish officials. 

The last piece of hand-luggage was stowed inside 
the omnibus, the last trunk was thumped on to the 
roof, the last porter was left staring with a melancholy 
countenance at his tip, the driver cracked his whip, and 
the omnibus started. 

The first sight of the patio of the Hotel Madrid was 
refreshing to the dusty travellers. The heat was intense, 
but the fountain in the centre gave a semblance of 
coolness. It was delicious to sit in a basket-chair and 
li ten to the cool splash-splash of the water. For the 
first time Sadie felt she was really in Spain — the Spain 
of the Romantics — the Spain of her imagination. Here 
were the deep blue skies she had read about, the wav- 
ing palms, the Moorish patio, the climbing roses, the 
glorious sunshine. 

A waiter brought out tea. Ever since Van Putten 
and his daughter had become intimate with the two 
Englishmen they had fallen in with the national 
custom. 

“I feel I’m going to like Seville very much,” said 
Sadie, as she handed Masterton a cup. 

“I hope you’ll restrain your passion for sightseeing,” 
said Phibbs. “I haven’t seen much of Seville, but it 
strikes me as a place to laze in. What do you say, 
Mr. Van Putten?” 

“Wal, to my mind, if a man’s obliged to loaf, Seville 
appears to me to be about as good as any other place.” 

Sadie was busy crumbling the remains of her roll for 
the goldfish in the fountain. She turned round to join 
in the conversation. 


THROUGH CORDOVA TO SEVILLE 109 


“ Loafing is a delightful amusement,” she said. “And 
it grows on one. You should have seen father when 
Dr. Waldo Smith ordered him abroad. He was in a 
state of collapse. And look at him now!” 

“I’m making the best of it,” said Van Putten. “If a 
thing’:, got to be done, it’s no use grumbling about it. 
You’ll never win through that way.” 

They lingered over tea in the pleasant, sociable fashion 
of people who get on perfectly together and are con- 
tent to talk when they feel inclined and not because 
they have to. 

After all there is much to be said for the Quakers’ 
meeting. To talk when the spirit moves us is ideal, 
but in this twentieth century it is an impossible ideal. 
If people talked only when the spirit moved them, there 
would be, alas! many a painful pause. Instead of the 
sound of many voices at a Savoy supper-party, we 
should see the guests sitting in silence waiting for the 
spirit to move them. In these circumstances not many 
of us would be asked out'. A certain ancient nursery 
rhyme recounts that little Tommy Tucker was obliged 
to sing for his supper. The twentieth-century Tommy 
Tuckers are expected to talk for their suppers. 

People who meet casually while travelling are under 
no such obligation one to the other. And for this 
reason the chance intercourse of travel is often very 
delicate and delightful with a flavour peculiarly its own. 
The friendship engendered by travel is like a frail 
filigree chain that may snap at any moment. And in 
this lies part of the charm. 

The man you found such a capital fellow when you 
met him at a mountain hut, half-way up Mont Blanc, 
may strike you as remarkably dull when you meet him 
in different surroundings. The woman who, on a pour- 


110 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


ing wet day in the Highlands, enlivened an interminable 
hour before luncheon, may seem a very ordinary specimen 
of her sex when you renew her acquaintance. In the 
holiday spirit there is a streak of magic. But, alas! one is 
bound sooner or later to come back to a workaday world. 

“What does every one say to a stroll? ” said Masterton, 
when they had finished tea. 

Van Putten looked up from the New York Herald 
and said that his anxiety to see Seville was not sufficient 
to take him out just then. 

Masterton turned to Phibbs. 

“What do you say?” 

Phibbs said he had letters to write. Masterton could 
not help wondering if he really had letters to write, or if 
he was merely offering burnt-sacrifice on the sacred alta-i 
of friendship. 

Pie turned to Sadie. 

“What do you say, Miss Van Putten?” 

“Just what I was going to suggest,” replied Sadie. 

They left the hotel and found their w T ay to Seville’s 
most famous street, which is known as the Calle de las 
Sierpes, or Street of the Serpents. 

“Well!” exclaimed Sadie, “I’m very disappointed.” 

“Are you? Why? What did you expect?” 

“I expected something very different. Just before I 
left the States I read a book called Through Spain with 
a Camera. The man who wrote that book said the 
Calle de las Sierpes was just the most beautiful street 
in existence. Now, Mr. Masterton, I ask you, do you 
cal this the most beautiful street in existence?” 

“I’ve seen finer thoroughfares.” 

Why, it’s just like one of the side streets in Venice! 
People who write travel books ought not to deceive one. 
Now, ought they, Mr. Masterton?” 



SEVILLE 



LA GIRALDA 



THROUGH CORDOVA TO SEVILLE 111 


“ I expect the writer saw it as he described t. Don’t 
you remember Turner’s rejoinder to the lady who told 
him she had never seen a sunset like those he was so 
fond of painting? He said, ‘Don’t you wish you could, 
madame?’” 

Sadie laughed. 

“You’ll never convince me that the writer of that 
travel book really thought this narrow passage a fine 
thoroughfare. Look at these small shops! He said 
there were such lovely cafes that the people of Seville 
never cared for the cafes anywhere eise. I should like 
to show some of them Deimonico’s.” 

“Ah,” said Masterton teasingly, “no one can hope 
to compete with Delmonico. You have everything on 
such a big scale in America.” 

They walked up one side of the Calle de las Sierpes, 
and down the other, gazing idly at the shops. Most of 
the windows were decked out to catch the eye of the 
tourist. There were paper fans with crude representa- 
tions of bull-fights, there were white mantillas and 
black mantillas, and high tortoise-shell combs. One 
window was full of sketches of the Alcazar. They were 
badly done (Masterton dismissed them as beneath 
notice), but they delighted Sadie. The arabesque 
arches, the high ornamental gates, the azulejos work 
proclaimed with a loud voice Moorish Spain. 

“If there’s time,” said Sadie, “I should just like to 
have a peep at the Cathedral.” 

They caught the first glimpse of La Giralda as the 
sun was going down. The ancient Moorish Prayer 
Tower stood out proudly. For centuries she has been 
the delight of countless people. The Moors prized her 
so much that when Ferdinand the Saint captured the 
city they determined to destroy this wonderful tower. 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


112 

But Ferdinand threatened speedy vengeance if this were 
done and La Giralda was spared. 

The bronze female figure seems to be always turning 
to welcome the stranger If you lose yourself (as you 
well may) in the labyrinth of streets encircling Pilate’s 
House, La Giralda turns and mocks you. If in any 
quarter of the town you elude her, it is only for a 
moment. She has cast a spell over Seville, and when, 
on the day of departure, you find yourself being driven 
to the station, you will probably lean far out of the 
hotel omnibus for a last glimpse of this fascinating 
landmark. 

The usual crowd of beggars surrounded the principal 
entrance and clamoured for ‘cinco cento.’ Masterton 
held back the heavy leather door, and Sadie passed 
in. 

There are many wonderful cathedrals in Spain. 
People visit them for various reasons. Some travellers 
reach Seville so sated with the glories of Burgos and 
Toledo that they give a little gasp of relief when they 
have ‘done’ Seville. 

The architectural maniac does not so much want to 
‘do a cathedral as to find out how it is done. He is 
like a child for whom some kind grown-up has built up 
a house of cards. He is not content with looking at it; 
he wants to dissect it. 

One gets to distinguish such people with a glance of 
the eye. They are nearly all determined-looking and 
they invariably wear pince-nez. If they do not dispense 
with the services of a guide altogether, they look on him 
with suspicion, and weigh every word that falls from his 
iips. 

They pass hurriedly through magnificent aisles to 
stand in rapture before some unimportant masonry. 


THROUGH CORDOVA TO SEVILLE 


113 


Long and lucidly will they argue about that unprom- 
ising stonework. The terms Visigothic and Plateresque 
roll glibly from their tongues, and the date of each brick 
seems to be of momentous importance. 

After all it is the average person who enjoys a 
cathedral best. He has picked up odds and ends 
of knowledge, and is equally ready to be stirred to 
patriotism by the handsome tomb of Columbus, or 
reverently to bow his head before Murillo’s wonderful 
‘Vision of St. Anthony.’ 

And perhaps it is the average person more than any 
other who appreciates the sense of space and the deep 
peace inseparable from a great cathedral. It would be 
possible to ignore every side chapel in Seville Cathedral 
and still to carry away an abiding sense of the power of 
God as interpreted by the power of man. 


CHAPTER XII 


A VISIT TO THE CARIDAD 

In one of his novels Turgenef says, ‘There is a special 
sweetness in wandering alone with one you love in a 
strange city among strangers.’ Sadie enjoyed this 
sweetness to the full in the days that followed. She 
and Masterton revelled in the sunshine of Seville. 
Together they visited the handsome cafes in the narrow 
Calle de las Sierpes, and Sadie ate ice-creams at the 
Cafe America and compared them with those procurable 
at Delmonico’s. Together they explored the maze of 
poverty-stricken streets in Triana and watched the sun 
dip into the water from Pedro’s golden tower. Some- 
times Phibbs or Van Putten accompanied them, but 
more often they were alone. In theory Masterton did 
not approve of this intimacy, but he excused it on the 
ground that Sadie was American. He had not spoken 
to her of his affection. They had reached that delight- 
ful stage when nothing is said and everything is implied. 
Masterton, who was one of the most critical of men, had 
begun to see everything with Sadie’s eyes. When this 
happens the end is not far off. 

Phibbs was secretly amused at the change. His 
friend had previously held strong prejudices with regard 
to Americans. His ideas were based on sensational 
newspaper articles, describing at length various freak 
entertainments. When Sadie told Masterton she had 


114 


A VISIT TO THE C ARID AD 


115 


never had dinner on horseback, or supper in a swim- 
ming-bath, he expressed surprise. 

“What extraordinary ideas you have of Americans !” 
she said dryly. 

One morning Mas ter ton realised with a sudden shock 
that things could not go on much longer as they were. 
He had come down to breakfast a little late, and 
glanced as usual at the corner where Sadie and her 
father were in the habit of sitting. Van Putten 
looked up. 

“Good morning!” he said. “My daughter’s finished 
breakfast and she’s gone to see some church or 
other.” 

Master ton mechanically ordered coffee and took up a 
letter from his mother, which was lying on his plate. 
As he looked at the pointed Italian writing, peculiar to 
the early sixties, he wondered what she would think of 
an American daughter-in-law. He recalled her dignified 
manners and strong prejudices. Would she be very 
much shocked at hearing a concert called a rehearsal, and 
a blouse referred to as a “shirt waist”? He let his coffee 
cool while he thought over these trifles. 

Suddenly he met the frank, smiling gaze of Sadie, and 
immediately he felt guilty. 

“Your father told me you had gone to visit some 
church or other,” he stammered. 

“I had to come back because I forgot what Mr. 
Phibbs calls the Red Fairy Book.” She took up Pro- 
fessor de Castro’s notes and turned to go. 

“Wait five minutes,” said Masterton. “Then we can 
go together.” The letter lay there — an invisible barrier 
between the two. Masterton could feel his mother s 
presence. He hastily picked up the envelope and put 
it in his pocket. Then he felt more comfortable. 


116 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“ Which church is it to be?” he asked, as they left the 
hotel. 

“The Caridad,” answered Sadie, as they crossed the 
sunny piazza. 

There_ is no more restful spot than the Caridad in 
all Seville. Its cool grey quiet invites the sightseer to 
pause on his way. ‘I have stood still,’ it seems to say, 
‘for two hundred and eighty years. For two and a half 
centuries I have sheltered Life’s Failures. After their 
futile battles with the world, I say to them, “Creep in 
here and Death shall come to you so gently that you 
shall not feel his approach.”’ 

“Shall we see the Murillos first?” said Sadie. 
“Afterwards we can go over the Almshouse and talk to 
the old men.” 

“Baroque!” was Masterton’s scornful comment, as 
they entered the church. 

“That’s a term of reproach, isn’t it?” 

“It is. As the early Victorian represents bad art in 
the nineteenth century, so the Baroque stands for bad 
art in the seventeenth century. Don’t you think it 
hideous?” 

“It’s certainly ugly,” agreed Sadie, “but it pleases me 
because Murillo used to paint here.” 

Mas ter ton laughed. 

“I never knew any one take such a personal view as 
you. To me, if a thing’s ugly it is ugly, and no amount 
of association makes any difference.” 

“With me, association is everything. It can even 
make ugly things beautiful. A friend of mine at home, 
a Mrs. Dobson, has a large marble vase which resembles 
a funeral urn. If you were to see that vase, Mr. Master- 
ton, you would want to break it on the spot. It once 
belonged to Mrs. Dobson’s mother. She admired it very 


A VISIT TO THE CARIDAD 


117 


much, but she and her husband were poor. One day 
Mr. Dobson said to the storekeeper, ‘ I want that vase, 
but I can't afford to purchase it outright. If you’ll put 
it aside, every Saturday I’ll bring you as much money 
as I can afford today by.’ The man promised, and six 
months later Mr. Dobson walked out of that store with 
the vase under his arm. That night he smoked the 
first pipe he’d had for six months. Little incidents like 
that make things dear to one, don’t they?” 

They had paused in front of Murillo’s ‘San Juan de 
Dios,’ and Masterton watched her as she stood there, 
quiet and intent. He was not surprised that the picture 
of the Saint staggering under the weight of the fainting 
beggar had made a powerful appeal. So well was he 
getting to know Sadie that he could have named off- 
hand the pictures most likely to attract her. 

“Murillo must have known what it was like to feel 
tired,” she observed. “If he hadn’t had that long tramp 
from Seville to Madrid, I don’t suppose he could ever 
have painted that.” 

“Of course you can’t compare Murillo with Velas- 
quez,” began Masterton. 

“I don’t want to compare them. Velasquez’s grand 
and Murillo’s homely. One can’t appreciate him in the 
Prado — he’s lost in a crowd. Haven’t you often met 
people like that? They don’t shine in society, but when 
you see them at home they’re altogether delightful. In 
the Prado Murillo’s overshadowed by Velasquez. Here, 
in the Caridad, he’s at home.” 

A Sister of Mercy came up and asked if they would 
like to see the Hospital. They followed her through 
the doorway and she pointed to the quaint lettering: 
‘This house will stand as long as God is feared in it, 
and Jesus Christ is served in the persons of His poor. 


118 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Whoever enters here must leave at the door both 
avarice and pride.’ 

Entering, they found themselves in a bare, white- 
washed room filled with old men. Some were stretched 
out in narrow beds, and lay there almost motionless 
under the white sheets. Others, not so ill or so old, 
but with the pathetic vacant look that always comes 
with decaying powers, sat there patiently waiting. 
Triumphant in youth and health, Sadie felt it almost 
sinful to be so strong and so happy. She turned to 
the Sister and asked how the old men amused them- 
selves. Did they read? No. There was not much 
education in Spain, and only one or two knew how to 
read. 

“How do they pass the time?” said Sadie. “It must 
seem very long.” 

“They sleep, Senorita. Old people sleep much.” 

Many were dozing. The head of one poor old fellow 
bobbed convulsively. As the Sister passed, she put him 
in a more comfortable position and gently replaced on 
his head the faded lilac cotton handkerchief which had 
tumbled to the ground. He was in the sunniest corner 
of the ward. The light was fierce and his eyes were 
getting dim. All at once there was a stir of expectation. 
Some of the automatons moved. One or two began 
to talk cheerily. There was the sound of a feeble 
laugh. 

“Dinner-time,” said the Sister, in explanation. The 
smell was good; it penetrated to every corner. 

The old man who slept with the handkerchief shield- 
ing his dim eyes woke up suddenly. He spread the 
handkerchief over his shrunken knees and sat up. 
He watched the others being served and gave a gulp 
of satisfaction when his turn came. 


A VISIT TO THE CARIDAD 


119 


“It’s a pity one can’t be always young,” said Sadie, 
as they lingered in the courtyard gay with roses. And 
Masterton agreed with her. 

The Sister watched them disappear through the 
wrought-iron gateway. She was interested in the two 
strangers — they made her think of her own life long 
ago. Twenty years before, on just such a morning, 
she had stood in her father’s courtyard and listened 
while her lover pleaded. At that time her one desire 
had been to enter a nunnery. The disappointed suitor 
had promptly married somebody else. He was now 
a prosperous merchant in Madrid. She had never 
regretted her decision — she did not regret it now. 
But, as she looked after Sadie, the tears pushed their 
way into her calm blue eyes. Ashamed of such worldly 
thoughts, her hand instinctively sought the cross that 
hung from her rosary. Her fingers closed over it and 
she was comforted. With a smile she left the sunny 
garden and went back to her poor old men. ^ 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE GARDEN OF THE ALCAZAR 

One morning Sadie crossed the patio of the hotel with 
the Red Fairy Book in her hand. Masterton, who was 
talking to Phibbs, broke off and said — 

“Where are you off so early?” 

“I’m going first to the Alcazar and afterwards to the 
Cathedral.” 

“May I come too?” 

“You won’t enjoy it; you know you laugh at 
Professor de Castro.” 

“I think he’s a wonderfully clever man and that he 
says some illuminating things. Now, are you satisfied? ’ 

“I’m going to study Ferdinand the Saint and Pedro 
the Cruel,” said Sadie. 

“A saint and a sinner! But why mix them?” 

“Well, they’re both buried together in the Cathedral 
and I thought I’d better not separate them.” 

Together they crossed the Plaza de Pacifico with the 
honest intention of studying Spanish history. Sadie 
was engrossed in the story of Pedro the Cruel; every 
minute she referred to Professor de Castro’s notes. 
But Masterton’s mind showed an inclination to wander. 
He began to realise that history in the making is more 
interesting than history that is already made. ; • 

“I must find the Doll’s Court,” said Sadie, wishing 
she could get him to take more interest in the subject. 

120 





SEVILLE 



THE ALCAZAR 



THE doll’s COURT 


3 " B *- 




THE GARDEN OF THE ALCAZAR 121 


She gave a little “Oh!” of pleasure when they stepped 
into the patio with its quaint moral decoration of tiny 
figures. A needy artist, who usually sold his pictures 
to a shop in the Calle de las Sierpes, was sitting there 
sketching. To relieve the photographic detail of the 
arabesque panelling, he had placed in the centre of the 
mosaic floor a flowering crimson rambler — the fallen 
petals marked a trail of rich colour. 

“Isn’t that beautiful?” said Sadie, with enthusiasm. 
“And so appropriate, too.” 

“It’s very effective,” agreed Masterton. “But why 
appropriate?” 

“Because poor Don Fadrique was murdered here by 
Pedro the Cruel.” 

“Don’t spoil this lovely morning by any horrors,” 
said Masterton. “You know it all happened a very 
long time ago.” 

But Sadie would not acquiesce in his lazy indifference 
and approached the artist. He explained the tragedy 
to her, with many gestures of his left arm. His eye 
roamed over the spots he indicated, and all the while 
his working arm painted steadily. For five years he 
had earned a precarious existence painting the Doll’s 
Court. With his eyes shut, he would have had no 
difficulty in filling in the minute flutings and patterned 
squares. Sadie’s vivid mind was busy piecing together 
the scene. 

“King Pedro must have been playing backgammon 
in that room,” she said. “And, I suppose, Don Fadrique 
stayed there talking to him and never suspected that 
anything was wrong. And then he must have strolled 
into this Court and here he found little groups of people 
talking.” 

She broke off abruptly and turned to the artist. 


m 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“ Where do you say King Pedro stood?” 

“There, Madame,” replied the artist, gesticulating 
with his eyes and painting all the while. ‘ He stood 
there and he called out, ‘Kill the Master of Santiago! 
Kill Don Fadrique!’” 

“Poor boy!” said Sadie tenderly — “poor, brave boy! 
He must have run between those pillars when they 
stabbed him.” 

She turned to the artist again. 

“Where do you say he fell?” 

“There, Madame, by that pillar.” 

Masterton was smiling to himself. Sadie’s intense 
personal interest in everything always entertained him. 

“Wasn’t he a brute,” she went on, “to murder his 
brother. I wonder if he went back afterwards and 
finished that game of backgammon.” 

“I expect so,” replied Masterton. “You see, one 
murder more or less in those days did not count. What 
do you want to see next? Are there any more haunts 
of murder to visit?” 

Sadie opened the Red Fairy Book, and stood a few 
moments attentively regarding it. 

“I want to see the room where Pedro murdered Abu 
Said. I took a lot of notes on that murder. The King 
of Granada had come to do homage, and he brought 
two hundred footmen with him and all his fine jewels. 
And when Pedro saw those jewels, he just felt he 
wanted them. So he sent armed men and they killed 
the King. And amongst the jewels was a vurry fine 
ruby. . Some time after Pedro wanted to give a present 
to your Black Prince, who had been helping him in some 
war or other, and he thought of that ruby and presented 
it to him, and the Black Prince took it away back to 
England. When I was in London last, I went to the 






SEVILLE 



THU GARDEN OF THE ALCAZAR 


THE GARDEN OF THE ALCAZAR 123 


Tower and saw it amongst the Crown Jewels. Have 
you seen it, Mr. Masterton?” 

“I haven’t been to the Tower for years,” he replied. 

They strolled through the elaborate Court of the 
Maidens, and then wandered about the quiet gardens. 

“It is very peaceful here,” said Sadie. “I wonder if 
Pedro planned many of his wicked deeds in this beautiful 
garden. I expect he used to sit out, on just such a 
morning as this, with the birds singing and the sun 
shining, and all he could find to think about was robbery 
and bloodshed.” 

“No, not all,” said Masterton. “You forget Marie of 
Padilla; he was in love with her.” 

There was a pause. Sadie did not answer or look up. 
There had never been any sentiment between her and 
Masterton. She had always felt that the Englishman 
regarded her merely in the light of a pleasant travelling 
companion. But in the Alcazar Gardens she was quick 
to detect a difference in his manner. It was as if 
he had ceased to say “I” and had begun to say 
“we.” 

Suddenly she brushed off the fly of sentiment which 
had momentarily been allowed to settle. 

“If we want to go into the Cathedral, we mustn’t 
waste any more time here,” she said. 

“You’re a most insatiable sightseer,” replied Master- 
ton. “Why not give up the Cathedral and sit? in this 
beautiful garden?” 

“It’s very pleasant,” said Sadie, “but one can sit in 
a garden any time. I came out with the intention of 
spending the morning with Pedro.” 

“Of course, I, as a commoner, have no chance against 
royalty. You democratic Americans are so very keen 
on titles, aren’t you?” 


124 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“We are/’ said Sadie frankly. “It’s natural to over- 
value what you don’t possess.” 

“ Rut this particular royalty is not engaging. I should 
have thought you’d seen quite enough of him.” 

“I want to visit his tomb. He’s buried in the 
Cathedral with Marie of Padilla.” 

“Come into that nice little shop in the Calle de las 
Sierpes and eat fresh strawberry tarts.” 

“No,” said Sadie firmly, “I would rather see Pedro’s 
tomb.” 

Entering the Cathedral was like stepping from the 
blazing sunshine into the magical freshness of a moonlit 
evening. Like so many stars, tiny lamps scintillated 
from the various altars, and where the light did not 
penetrate, the corners were black with the blackness of 
night. Here and there a coloured kerchief marked the 
spot where some worshipper prayed. A group of 
children preceded them up the aisle. Sadie was amused 
at the womanly gravity of the eldest, who could not 
have been more than seven. With a quaint precision 
she took from the pocket of her ragged skirt three 
white cotton handkerchiefs. With one she adorned her 
own head. The other two she folded carefully and 
placed crosswise on the tiny black heads of the two 
youngsters. Then, with the same seriousness, she dipped 
her hand in the holy water and gravely crossed herself, 
while the two babies, with eyes big with wonder, 
followed her example. 

A one-armed man stepped forward. 

“Laty and chentleman,” he said, “I am a guide which 
is permitted by the Cathedral. I will show you the 
side shapels — I will show you everything.” 

It was useless for them to explain that they had 
already visited the Cathedral many times. The one- 


THE GARDEN OF THE ALCAZAR 125 


armed man was convinced they had not seen one-half 
the treasures it contained. He had not shown them, 
and no other guide knew the Cathedral as he did. His 
English was not easily understood, but his energy was 
inexhaustible. From chapel to chapel he hurried them. 
He greeted every picture, every carving, every stained- 
glass window with the same wild burst of admiration. 
There were no degrees; everything was superlative. 
He had no sooner reached one aisle than he bounded 
off in the opposite direction to show them something he 
had forgotten. Sadie would have dismissed him sooner 
but for the fact of that empty jacket sleeve. But at last, 
when they came to the Capilla Real, she refused to 
allow him to accompany them farther. 

“ Never talk to me again about American energy,” 
she said to Masterton; “we can’t produce anything like 
that man in the States. I can get on better with my 
notebook which you make such fun of. He talked so 
fast, and his accent was very peculiar; I’m sure we 
shall enjoy the royal tombs better without him.” 

Masterton asked what Professor de Castro had to say 
about the silver shrine before which they were standing. 

Sadie opened the book and began to read — 

“The shrine contains the body of Ferdinand the 
Saint, King of Spain. The King was first buried in an 
ordinary wooden coffin, which may be seen in the 
Pantheon. Later he was canonised and his body 
placed in a silver casket.” She paused. “D’ye want 
to know anything more of Ferdinand, or have I read 
enough?” 

“I don’t know very much about him, except that he 
objected to the Moors blowing up La Giralda. That 
bit of information greets you in every guide-book. 
Ferdinand must have been a man of good sense. He 


126 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


knew towers like La Giralda are not built every 
day.” 

“ If I read too much you must tell me to stop,” said Sadie. 

But Masterton had no inclination to do that. The 
American accent, which formerly had irritated him, now 
dropped on his ear with a pleasant sense of familiarity. 
He did not exactly admire it, but it was fast becoming 
necessary to him. 

They moved to the High Altar and stood looking at 
the thirteenth-century doll which St. Louis of France 
gave to Ferdinand. Sadie was very amused at the 
virgin’s removable golden hair. 

“Isn’t that quaint? ’’she said. “She’s just like a woman 
wearing a transformation. And look at her shoes, too. 
Aren’t they cunning with all that beautiful embroidery?” 

“They’re embroidered with the word ‘Amor,’” said 
Masterton; and the silence that Lad attacked them in 
the Alcazar Gardens fell between them again. 

It was unlike Sadie, however, to be silent for very 
long. On this occasion she soon found her voice. 

“Aren’t you reminded of the Parable of the Wheat 
and the Tares?” she whispered, as they groped their 
way down the steps leading to the Pantheon. 

“How do you mean?” asked Masterton. His brain 
worked far more slowly than Sadie’s; her mental agility 
was rather disturbing at times. 

“Not very far from the Saint lies the body of the 
Sinner,” she said, deciphering, with some difficulty, the 
worn lettering on the coffins. “How a sobriquet sticks 
to one!” she continued. “D’ye know, I somehow 
expected to read on that coffin ‘Pedro the Cruel’! I’m 
glad they buried Marie of Padilla beside him. Pedro 
was certainly a monster, but he seems to have been 
kind to Marie.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


A CONFIDENTIAL CHAT 

The sun in Seville grew hotter each day, yet no one 
suggested leaving. Van Putten did not care for the 
literary associations of the city, but he would sit for 
hours in the patio of the hotel, contentedly smoking a 
pipe and busy planning improvements. 

“A great city,” he was fond of saying, “but Seville 
needs pulling together.” 

One afternoon they had driven, as they often did, to 
Las Delicias. It was between six and seven in the 
evening, and the fashionable promenade was crowded. 
Van Putten watched the carriages pass and repass. 
He commented on the handsome faces under towering 
Parisian millinery, and, true to his Dutch ancestry, 
expressed disapproval of the powder which lay thick on 
those handsome faces. At last he turned to Phibbs. 

“I think you gave me to understand that you’re not 
acquainted with New York City?” 

“That is so.” 

“Then you don’t know Central Park. We spend a 
power of money on it, but you should see the way we 
keep it up.” He pointed to a tuft of green sprouting 
from the gravel. “Look at those weeds; we don’t 
allow weeds in Central Park. It seems to me the 
Spanish Government not only allows weeds in the 
parks, but in the cities as well. I’m informed that 
127 


128 A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 

this country contains considerably more than one 
hundred thousand professional beggars — one hundred 
thousand humans brought up to do nothing. It’s 
terrible! Now, I wonder the Government doesn’t find 
these loafers some useful employment. They might 
set them to mend the roads. I assure you, Mr. Phibbs, 
that I suffer whenever I take a drive.” 

At this moment Sadie and Masterton came up. 

“What are you two discussing so earnestly?” said 
Sadie. 

“Your father has been thinking how he can improve 
Spain.” 

“That’s a pet weakness of his! I suppose every 
nation is always trying to improve every other nation. 
Mr. Masterton has just been saying some very hard 
things about Trusts.” 

Van Putten’s national sensitiveness was at once 
aroused. 

“No one outside the States understands Trusts,” he 
said; “they’ve helped to make America. It’s difficult 
for a General to take a city without losing some of his 
soldiers, and it’s impossible to capture a national 
financial position without treading down the little 
men.” 

It was past seven, and fashionable Seville was going 
home to dinner. Masterton beckoned a passing 
carriage and they got in. Along the banks of the 
Guadalquivir they drove. The river was dotted with 
vessels whose sails hung slackly in the hot, still air. In 
the distance Pedro’s Golden Tower stood out, reflecting 
the concentrated rays of the setting sun. 

Late that same evening Masterton and Phibbs sat in 
the courtyard of the hotel smoking. They were the 
only people left, and a solitary waiter was furtively 


A CONFIDENTIAL CHAT 


129 


watching their every movement. The air was heavy 
with orange blossom, and the moon lay full on the 
fountain, turning the gold fish to silver fish. They 
shimmered in the strong white light, making a cool 
plashing sound as they swished through the water. 
The two men sat there enjoying the companionship of 
silence. At last Phibbs knocked the ashes of his cigar 
into his coffee-cup. 

“Ripping night!” he remarked. 

Mas ter ton agreed with him. 

“We’ve been in Seville a month to-morrow.” 

Again Mas ter ton agreed with him. 

“Don’t you think we ought to leave soon?” 

“That depends.” 

“You mean it depends on the Van Puttens. Have 
you spoken to the girl yet?” 

“No, not yet.” 

“What on earth are you waiting for?” 

Thus challenged, Master ton was at a loss for an 
answer. What was he waiting for? He hardly knew. 
After a pause he said he was sorry that Sadie was 
American, and Phibbs laughed. 

“She doesn’t fit in with your theories — she doesn’t 
square with your ideas. You’ve heard that the American 
woman’s extravagant, that she leaves her husband for 
months while she travels abroad, and so you funk her. 
This is all theoretical — merely what you’ve heard. 
Now, be practical for once. Does Miss Van Putten 
strike you as that sort of woman?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Why hesitate then?” 

“For one thing, I’m not sure she cares for me.” 

“Any one can see that she does.” 

“You think so? American women are so free 


130 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


and easy that it’s difficult to tell the state of their 
feelings.’’ 

“She’s free and easy with me, but I’m not under any 
delusion.” 

“You think she cares?” 

“I’m positive.” 

The solitary waiter was still eyeing them. He was 
tired, and the conversation was becoming more animated. 
It was provoking. 

“Of course, I have my mother to consider.” 

“Don’t you think she will approve of Miss Van 
Putten?” 

“I hardly know. My mother is distinctly old- 
fashioned, and Miss Van Putten belongs to a modern 
type.” 

“Have you told her anything?” 

“Not at present.” 

The waiter smothered a yawn, and Phibbs took 
compassion on him. 

“ Every one seems to have turned in,” he said. “What 
time breakfast?” 

“I shall be rather early. Miss Van Putten and I are 
going to see Pilate’s House. Of course we shall be 
delighted if you’ll join us.” 

Phibbs laughed. “No, thanks; but take my advice. 
Settle the matter quickly — as soon as possible.” 

Their footsteps echoed along the uncarpeted staircase; 
the sleepy waiter watched them disappear, and then 
switched oh the light in the deserted courtyard. 


CHAPTER XV 


PILATE’S HOUSE 

The next morning Sadie disentangled herself from the 
white net mosquito curtains, and, springing out of bed, 
drew back the bright green shutters. The Plaza was 
curiously still; the sky was a clear, pallid blue, and a 
light breeze was ruffling the feathery fronds of the date 
palms. The insistent smell of the orange flower blew 
in at the open window. Sadie took several deep 
breaths. The smell put her in mind of bridal bouquets and 
set her thinking. Why was the orange flower a symbol 
of marriage? Was it because of the white purity of the 
tiny blossom, or because of its haunting sweetness? In 
the midst of her thoughts she became conscious that 
the hard, polished floor was cold for her bare feet, and 
she turned away from the window and began to dress. 
On the staircase she met Leo, who was smiling. There 
had been no packing up, no anxieties for a month. The 
well-known crease had left his forehead. 

“ Good morning, Leo,” she said gaily. “ What are you 
going to do this glorious morning?” 

“You will not require me, Mademoiselle? No. 
Very good. And when does Mademoiselle propose to 
leave Seville?” 

“Leave Seville!” The words took some of the sun- 
shine out of the morning. “Leave Seville!” Sadie 
had not thought about it. 

131 


132 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“ Seville’s a lovely place; isn’t it, Leo?’ 

“But charming, Mademoiselle. I ’ave ’ere a packet 
of postcards for my little Beppo. I go to put them in 
the post now.” 

Van Putten was sitting in the courtyard awaiting his 
daughter; they were soon joined by Masterton. 

“Leo has just asked me when we intend to leave 
Seville,” she said. 

Masterton paused in the opening of a letter. 

“And what did you tell him?” 

“I told him I didn’t know; I said we were not 
in a hurry. Who would be in a hurry to leave 
Seville?” 

He looked at her to see how much she meant by the 
trifling words. She had got up from the table to throw 
the crumbs of her roll to the goldfish in the fountain. 
He could not see her face, but his eye noted with 
pleasure the moving light on the brown hair. 

“Who would be in a hurry to leave Seville?” he 
echoed. And then, “Don’t you think it’s rather hot 
for Pilate’s House? Wouldn’t it be nicer to laze in the 
Alcazar Gardens?” 

“No,” said Sadie, in her quick, decisive way, “I should 
like to do what we first arranged.” 

They jumped into a passing tram, which was 
crammed with women who were carrying market- 
baskets and babies. The cool, earthy smell of the fresh 
vegetables pierced the air. Sadie had a lively sense 
that the day was beginning for everybody. A pleasant 
busyness prevailed. But how different from the busy- 
ness of New York. She recalled numerous rides in the 
morning cars — the frantic rush of those wishing to be 
the first aboard, the excitable movements, tense, irritable 
faces, the general utilitarianism and hideousness. 


PILATE’S HOUSE 


133 


Masterton gently touched her arm. “This is where 
we get down.” 

They stepped into a blaze of sunshine. Sadie’s eye 
met the familiar whitewashed houses, and she rejoiced 
in the blue sky and waving palms. Who would be in a 
hurry to leave Seville? 

Masterton paused at the corner of the street and 
drew a map out of his pocket. It was one of his 
foibles that he would never ask the way. 

“Pilate’s House can’t be far from here,” he said, “but 
these little narrow streets are rather confusing.” 

However, they were lucky on this occasion. With- 
out much difficulty they found the entrance and 
passed through the ironwork door and into the patio 
beyond. Sadie examined the long row of busts with 
interest. 

“ People don’t change much, do they, Mr. Masterton? ” 

“You mean in ideas?” 

“In ideas — in everything. I can just imagine the 
owner of this property making the grand tour and 
purchasing these antiques. When he came back, of 
course, he was delighted to show them off to his friends. 
The Duke of Alcala is very human, isn’t he? We all 
like travelling abroad and showing what we’ve bought 
to the people who’ve been obliged to stay at home. 
He must have been a splendid host, and it’s a beautiful 
house for entertaining. No wonder all the great people 
wanted to come here.” 

“Yes,” said Masterton, “they’ve all been here — - 
Herrera, and Pacheco, and Cervantes, and Velasquez. 

Sadie laughed. 

“I wonder if they enjoyed themselves, or if they went 
home and said it had been rather slow. That happens 
sometimes at home. A hostess invites several nota- 


134 A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 

bilities and thinks the evening is going to sparkle. 
And the evening doesn’t sparkle, but is very dull.” 

They wandered through Pilate’s House, talking in 
haphazard fashion — at one moment discussing their 
own plans, the next transported to the time of the 
Dukes of Alcala. 

Masterton was glad to find that Sadie appreciated 
Don Quixote. She was not one of those who refer 
glibly to “the immortal author of Don Quixote ” without 
having read a line. 

“It’s a long book,” she said, “but I didn’t find it too 
long. If I had I should have stopped right in the 
middle. Life’s too short to read books one doesn’t care 
about.” 

This remark led to a discussion on books and authors. 
Sadie said she thought authors were unduly petted, 
especially in America. In consequence they took 
themselves too seriously and their work suffered. 

“I was at a big Club in Boston one afternoon,” she 
said, “and I was introduced to a lady who looked very 
shocked when I told her I was not acquainted with her 
name. It turned out that three years before she had 
written the wx>rds of a song — not a very well-known 
song either.” 

“There you have the sensitiveness of the artistic 
temperament,” said Masterton. 

“There’s a lot of nonsense talked about the artistic 
temperament,” said Sadie. “Other people are sensitive 
too, but no allowance is made for them. I have a 
cousin who is obliged to earn her own living, so she 
took up typewriting. One afternoon she went to a 
Ladies’ Club and she was introduced to a well-known 
authoress. ‘And what is your work?’ asked the author- 
ess. My cousin said she was working for a Boston 





pilate’s house 







PILATE’S HOUSE 


135 


publisher, and she mentioned the name. ‘That’s 
exceedingly interesting,’ said the authoress, ‘because I 
work for him too.’ Now, my cousin didn’t want her to 
be under any misapprehension, so she said, ‘I don’t 
write books — I just do the typewriting.’ The authoress 
gave her a crushing look. 1 That's not quite the same 
thing , is it?' she said, and she walked away, leaving the 
poor girl standing in the middle of the room. Anything 
like that makes one loathe the artistic temperament. 
I admire Cervantes very much, but of course he didn’t 
possess the artistic temperament.” 

“Didn’t he?” said Masterton, amused at America’s 
frank criticism of the Immortals. 

“Why, no. I’ve just finished reading his life; he 
seems to have been a most sensible, ordinary sort of 
man. One little incident amused me very much — it was 
so characteristic. He’d been made a tax-collector and 
was so delighted that he wrote to a friend saying he had 
found something better to do than writing comedies. 
Now, didn’t that show he had no nonsense about him? I 
suppose,” she added reflectively, “that when a man has 
lost an arm and been kept in prison for five years, it 
doesn’t very much matter to him if his books are 
appreciated or not.” 

“And yet,” said Masterton, “being appreciated is 
essential to happiness, isn’t it?” 

He was wondering if he would ask Sadie to be his 
wife then and there. True, nothing had led up to the 
subject. They had been discussing Spanish literary 
society with all the warmth necessary to the occasion, 
but beneath the surface- talk each was plumbing the 
depths of the other’s personality. Masterton’s theories 
regarding Americans were fast vanishing. He had 
always been fond of generalising — he was now beginning 


136 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


to particularise. The so-called bright American woman, 
with a judgment at once sweeping and superficial, he had 
always disliked. But Sadie was different, he told himself. 
When a man says, “This woman is different from every 
other woman,” one thing is certain — he is in love. 

When they entered the dining-room for lunch Sadie 
exclaimed — 

“That’s odd!” 

“What’s odd?” 

“You see that young girl sitting there — the far side 
of the room?” 

Masterton directed his gaze and said “Yes.” 

“She was on the Folkestone-Boulogne boat, and I 
made her acquaintance. I’ll speak to her as soon as 
lunch is over.” 

The young girl looked round shyly once or twice 
during the meal. She recognised Sadie, and was so 
excited that she forgot to eat her cutlet. Miss Hether- 
ington looked at her disapprovingly. 

“Do get on, May. You’re keeping us waiting.” 

“I’m very sorry, Miss Hetherington, but I’ve just seen 
somebody I know.” 

“Really. Who?” 

“Some one who crossed with us on the Folkestone- 
Boulogne boat.” 

“How very remarkable!” said Miss Hetherington 
sarcastically. 

May was momentarily checked. Then she said — 

“I remember this girl particularly, because she was so 
kind to me.” 

“Well, if she was kind to you, there’s no need to stare. 
It’s such bad form.” 

Thus reproved, May finished her cutlet in silence. She 
often sat through a meal without saying a word. Her 


PILATE’S HOUSE 


137 


small sprouts of conversation were usually ruthlessly 
nipped by one or other of the Miss Hetheringtons. 
When she was eating the final course, consisting of small 
dried-up raisins and sweet biscuits, Miss Hetherington 
turned to her. 

“ I’m not quite sure I know the girl you mean. Don’t 
look now. But, when you’ve a chance, tell me if it’s the 
girl near the door.” 

Gratified at having the conversation reopened, May 
turned and looked. 

“Yes, Miss Hetherington, that’s the one. I think she’s 
American.” 

“ The men sitting at her table look rather decent. Don’t 
you agree with me, Carrie?” 

Carrie Hetherington always agreed with Barbara. It 
saved time. 

“I think,” she went on, “that the dark one with the 
pince-nez looks clever.” 

Carrie Hetherington always regarded pince-nez as the 
outward and visible sign of intellect. 

“We shall not be going out for an hour,” said Miss 
Hetherington. “If you like, May, you can renew ac- 
quaintance with your friend of the boat.” 

May coloured and hesitated. 

“I — I don’t like to go up to her. Perhaps she won’t 
remember me.” 

“Do as you please, of course, but you really are most 
trying. A few minutes ago you were quite excited at 
meeting this girl, and now you don’t care to say how- 
d’ye-do. ” 

“I’d love to speak to her, Miss Hetherington, but — ” 

“As I said before, you must do as you please. The 
subject is not worth discussing.” 

They went into the courtyard and sat down at a little 


138 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


bamboo table. Miss Hetherington took up a Spanish 
newspaper and tried to find out how many words she 
could translate. Miss Carrie studied the fashions in an 
old number of the Queen , and May sat there staring 
straight in front of her. The courtyard was bright with 
flowers, and the sun was streaming down, but she was 
feeling terribly home-sick. She thought of the shabby 
house in an obscure road in Bayswater, remembering 
the morning that the advertisement had caught her 
eye: “Travelling companion. Must be of good educa- 
tion, fond of travelling, skilful in hairdressing, and able 
to get up lace” — so the advertisement had run. She 
had read it out to her mother and Letty. How excited 
they had both been! Letty had lent her new hat, so 
that she might not appear shabby when she called in 
South Kensington. With the consciousness that the 
borrowed hat was exceedingly becoming she had set off, 
full of hope, Letty watching her departure from the top 
of the well-worn flight of steps. The parting words had 
been characterisitc of her sister. “ Don’t be disappointed 
if you don’t get the place. There will be dozens of 
applications. So many girls jump at a chance of 
travelling.” And she had been chosen. She had been 
as surprised as anybody, for she had conscientiously told 
Miss Hetherington that she did not speak French and 
that she was without experience. But her skill in hair- 
dressing and her dexterity with a spirit-iron had out- 
weighed other objections. Up to the last May had not 
been able to believe in her good fortune. Something 
would happen to prevent the journey; she had been 
sure of it. She would be ill, or Miss Hetherington would 
be ill, or, most terrible thought of all, her mother would 
be ill. But nothing had happened. Her wish had been 
granted. She had come to the glorious South, and had 


PILATE’S HOUSE 


139 


been miserable ever since. Oh, the long, long days made 
up of pin pricks! The pin pricks had made more im- 
pression on her than all the masterpieces in the Prado. 
During the month preceding her departure she and 
Letty had saturated themselves with Spain. It had 
been a particularly foggy, unpleasant month, and she had 
sat in the little back dining-room stitching away at the 
clothes for her journey. While she worked, Letty had 
read aloud a book borrow: d from the Free Library. It 
had been heavenly to read of blue skies and waving 
palms while the rain trickled noisily down the gutter 
pipe. Every now and then Letty had stopped in her 
reading to exclaim, “Oh, May, what a lucky girl you 
are!” She had found the blue skies and waving palms, 
but they had not made up for the raw edge of unkind- 
ness which she had felt for the first time in her life. At 
the recollection of the various pin pricks the tears 
rushed into her eyes. Then, becoming aware of Miss 
Hetherington’s critical gaze, she blinked the tears away, 
saying innocently — 

“Isn’t the sun scorching? It makes my eyes water.” 

Miss Hetherington returned to her newspaper and 
May lay back in her chair, inert and dreamy. 

“I wonder if you remember me?” 

May started to her feet. She had been far away in 
the company of her mother and Letty. The decisive 
American accent pulled her together. She stretched 
out her hand to Sadie with the grateful look of one who 
never forgets a kindness. 

“I recognised you at once,” she said, “but I was afraid 
to come up and speak to you.” 

The two girls moved a few steps away from the 
bamboo table. Sadie asked May if she might take 
her across the courtyard and introduce her to her 


140 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


father. May gave a glance in the direction of Miss 
Hetherington. She wondered if she might venture. 
Apparently Miss Hetherington was still deep in her 
translation; it would be delightful to get away for a 
few moments. 

“I mustn’t stay long,” she whispered, as she followed 
Sadie. 

Meanwhile, Masterton and Phibbs had been watching 
Sadie’s movements. Phibbs liked the look of the young 
girl with the freckled, childish face. His friend had 
been so occupied the past fortnight that he had seen 
little of him. Van Putten was very agreeable, but a 
change of society would be pleasant. 

“My father,” said Sadie, indicating Van Putten. 
“And these are our two friends, Mr. Masterton and 
Mr. Phibbs.” 

Both men hastened to welcome the newcomer, and 
asked the usual questions and received the usual answers. 
After a few minutes there was a pause, which May filled 
by saying she was afraid she must not stop any longer. 
“We’re about to have an ice-cream soda,” said Van 
Putten. “Why not ask your two friends to join us?” 

May was so delighted at the suggestion that her face 
flushed into prettiness. “I — I wonder if they will,” she 
said; “I’ll go and ask them.” 

She was quite excited at this unexpected pleasure, 
and waited eagerly for Miss Hetherington’s verdict. It 
was favourable. Introductions were made, and the party 
split into fragments. Masterton discussed Seville Cathe- 
dral with Miss Hetherington, Phibbs joked with May, 
Van Putten devoted himself to Miss Carrie, while Sadie 
acted as chorus. But it seemed as if no one wanted to 
listen to the chorus, and suddenly she felt out of it. She 
was far too sensible to want to be always first, but she 


PILATE’S HOUSE 


141 


resented being ousted by people she disliked. She had 
taken an unaccountable antipathy to the two Miss 
Hetheringtons. Quick to divine insincerity, she felt that 
both ladies were insincere, and for that reason she could 
take no interest in their conversation. What they said 
mattered little to her, because she knew that what they 
said was not necessarily what they thought. 

Miss Hetherington and Masterton, after exhausting 
the conversational possibilities of Seville Cathedral, had 
plunged head foremost into Early Italian Art. 

Now and again one or other politely included Sadie 
in the conversation, but, as Sadie knew very little about 
Early Italian Art and the other knew a great deal, she 
was obliged to play a super’s part. The names of 
Cimabue and Giotto were tossed lightly backwards 
and forwards. 

Masterton was a true lover of art. He was no 
hypocrite talking merely for the pleasure of impressing 
Sadie. He was an enthusiastic admirer of the Early 
Italian, and Miss Hetherington drew him out very 
cleverly. She knew exactly what to admire, and what 
to condemn, and why. From Italian Art they glided 
into Spanish Art. Suddenly the name of El Greco fell 
on Sadie’s ear. She looked up. Miss Hetherington 
appeared to be waiting for an answer to a question. 
Unfortunately, she had not heard the question. 

“Miss Hetherington wants to know if you are an 
admirer of El Greco,” said Masterton. 

“El Greco! El Greco!” repeated Sadie. “If that’s 
the man who draws his people lengthways, I certainly 
am not. He’s altogether too e-longated for my 
taste.” 

“What an immense advantage for you to have had 
Mr. Masterton with you!” said Miss Hetherington. 


14 % 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


‘It does help to have some one who really understands 
pictures.” 

Masterton was only human; his vanity was tickled. 
He was glad Miss Hetherington was placing him in 
such a favourable light. 

Sadie got up. 

“I mustn’t stop any longer/’ she said. “I have a 
letter to get off by this mail.” 

She went up to her bedroom. The heat in Seville 
was so intense that it was necessary to keep the green 
shutters tightly closed during the middle of the day; 
the room seemed very dark after the sunny courtyard 
below. 

Sadie slid back the shutters and sat down at the open 
window. She put her writing-pad on her knee and drew 
out a sheet of paper. Usually she was not at a loss for 
words, but she did not quite know how to begin. The 
blank sheet seemed to stare vacantly at her. She was 
forced to come to the conclusion that she was not in 
the mood for letter-writing. Still, Mrs. Dobson would 
be expecting to hear from her, and she did not want 
to lose the mail. Mrs. Dobson’s last letter was lying 
between the thick folds of blotting-paper. She took 
it up. It ran as follows — 

“My dear Sadie, — I was delighted to get your long 
letter from Madrid, and to know that your father is so 
much better. I hope this will reach you all right. I 
am addressing Poste Restante, Seville — as you advised. 
Mr. Dobson was very entertained with your account of 
the Royal Palace and the Royal Stables. Fancy your 
seeing the poor horse who was injured by the bomb on 
the wedding day! I had an idea that all the horses 
were killed outright. How I should enjoy all the 
wonderful sights! — especially seeing them with you. 


PILATE’S HOUSE 


143 


Mr. Dobson says that if everything goes on well at 
the Works we may be able to visit Europe together 
next Fall. He’s as anxious as I am to see Spain, so 
please take note of the most comfortable hotels and 
anything else that may strike you. Professor de 
Castro’s three last lectures were very badly attended; 
people have got tired of him. I hear that he has not 
been engaged for the lectures next Fall. A high-caste 
Hindu is taking the course. The subject is to be 
‘Psychic Force and Yoga Philosophy.’ The Hindu has 
been a great success in Boston. Jenny Walters heard 
him there, and she says the lectures were so crammed 
it was very difficult to find a place. He wears ordinary 
European clothing and a pink striped turban. The 
other day, while I was waiting for a Brooklyn car, I met 
Tim Vincent. He asked most particularly after you. 
Ti e Masons have invited him to join their party at 
Atlantic City next August. He wanted to know if 
there was any chance of your being there at the same 
time. 

‘ You seem to have come across very pleasant people. 
It would be odd if you married an Englishman after 
all. But please don’t, Sadie. We can’t spare you. 
Remember me very kindly to your father, and, believe 
me, ever your affectionate friend, 

“Hannah Dobson.” 

Sadie read the letter through twice. Then she took 
up her pen and wrote — 

“My dear Mrs. Dobson, — This letter must be short 
and sweet as I want to catch the mail. Therefore you 
must ’ expect any long descriptions of the Alcazar or 
SeviLe Cathedral. The people of Spain are not half as 
gay s I expected to find them. I imagined them 
sittin in their patios playing their guitars all day long. 
We’ v e only heard one guitar since I came, and that was 


144 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


after dinner the other night when a man dressed up in 
toreador costume played for an hour and took a collec- 
tion afterwards, so it wasn’t quite like a genuine per- 
formance. Yesterday we went over the great Tobacco 
Factory. Do you remember the lecture we went to, 
given by that Swedish Professor who said that fresh air 
was so necessary to everybody? Well, I don’t know 
what he would have said if he could have spent half an 
hour in the Tobacco Factory. The women are allowed 
to bring their babies with them, and they sit in a per- 
fectly stifling atmosphere all day long. The funny part 
is that the babies are as fat and jolly as anything, and 
seem to get on quite well without fresh air. The 
Spaniards are dreadful beggars. As we passed through 
the central room where the women were busy rolling 
cigarettes, they all called out, ‘Cinco cento, cinco cento!’ 
Cinco cento is about equal in value to one cent. ‘ Cinco 
cento’ is the national cry of Spain. Remember me to 
Tom Vincent when you see him. Before I left home the 
Masons asked me to join them at Atlantic City in 
August. I told them I would, if father kept well. How 
can you write such nonsense about my marrying an 
Englishman? Mr. Masterton is very pleasant, but he 
is merely a passing travelling acquaintance — nothing 
more. — Ever your loving friend, Sadie.” 

Sadie read the last sentence three times over. She 
had denied the fact in black and white and felt easier in 
her mind. Then she placed the letter in an envelope, 
sealed it up, and addressed it. 

Meanwhile, down in the courtyard, Masterton was 
still engaged in animated conversation with Miss 
Hetherington. 

At last she said — 

“ Carrie, if we intend driving to Las Delicias before 
dinner, we must be making a move.” 


PILATE’S HOUSE 


145 


“One minute, Barbara. Mr. Van Putten is telling 
me all about the bull-fight he saw in Madrid; it’s so 
exciting. And was your daughter there?” 

“She was. At first she didn’t much care about it, but 
when she saw all the excitement in the street she was 
just as keen as anybody.” 

Masterton had broken off in the middle of a monologue 
on Velasquez, and was listening intently. 

“Do you approve of women going to bull-fights?” 
Miss Hetherington asked him. 

“Approve! how can you ask me?” 

“I’m so glad to hear you say that. To my mind, a 
woman who sits through a bull-fight unsexes herself.” 

Masterton dwelt on this remark after the Miss 
Hetheringtons had left the tea-table. It was true. The 
bull-ring was no place for a woman. Any woman who 
went did unsex herself. He agreed with Miss Hether- 
ington. And to think that Sadie had gone and deliber- 
ately concealed the fact. Curiosity had evidently led 
her there, and she had been ashamed to confess as much. 
He had always looked on Sadie as the embodiment of 
frankness, and he felt he had been duped. He recalled 
the evening in Madrid when they had first met. He 
had explained the photographs to the Rev. Thomas 
Mills and his wife, and Sadie had stood by and not said 
a word. Yet that very afternoon she had seen the bull- 
fight. He was annoyed and indignant. Very likely 
this American girl had been laughing at him all the 
while. This thought served to make him all the more 
bitter. He had been perilously near proposing to Sadie; 
he was glad he had not done so. For, after all, marriage 
is a serious affair. A man must be certain of himself, 
and Masterton was by no means certain of himself. 


CHAPTER XVI 


GOOD-BYE TO SEVILLE 

Miss Hetherington and Miss Carrie Hetherington 
were usually referred to collectively as the two Miss 
Hetheringtons. 

In reality there was only one Miss Hetherington — 
Miss Carrie being merely a second edition of her sis er. 

Outwardly they were two averagely good-lcol n 
intelligent Englishwomen. Masterton thought tl m 
both very agreeable, and he could not understand Sad„e s 
pronounced dislike. 

The two Miss Hetheringtons were the daughters of a 
wealthy banker in the provinces. In their native town 
they were accustomed to receive much homage. They 
went out a great deal, they were well educated, and when 
it suited them they were agreeable, so, naturally, they 
had had several opportunities of marrying. But they 
had never cared to settle down permanently because 
secretly they despised the provinces. 

In the Midland town in which they lived most of the 
families were self-made. Very few possessed a grand- 
father. The two Miss Hetheringtons despised the men 
they had been brought up with. They pitied them 
because they were without culture. Now and again a 
wife fired with ambition would drag an unwilling hus- 
band off to Florence or Rome. But the experiment 
was not often repeated. Very often the wife (although 
146 


GOOD-BYE TO SEVILLE 


147 


she would not admit it) had not enjoyed the tour any 
more than the husband. And she returned with zest to 
her shopping and her afternoon calls and her afternoon 
bridge parties. 

Many of the two Miss Hetheringtons’ acquaintances 
(they had no real friends) thought that two ladies so 
travelled and so well-read were wasted in the provinces 
— that they ought to adorn London. But Miss Carrie 
often repeated a remark of her sister’s: “One is lost in 
London among the crowd.” 

The two Miss Hetheringtons had wintered in Algiers 
and in Egypt; they knew Italy a good deal better than 
England; once they had ventured as far as the West 
Indies. But none of these things avail in London. You 
must have nearly lost your life while scaling some 
unpronounceable peak before you are deemed worthy of 
notice. You must have crossed some unknown tract of 
land and been given up for dead, and then perhaps, and 
not till then, you may be asked to read a paper before 
the Geographical Society. Whereas the two Miss 
Hetheringtons’ travelling experiences, ordinary as they 
might appear to the mind of the initiated, made a very 
real impression in their own town. 

If any one contemplated a fortnight in Switzerland 
a hostess would say immediately — 

“You must ask the two Miss Hetheringtons all about 
it — they’ve been everywhere.” 

The reputation thus acquired was enjoyed to the full 
by both ladies. And though they often talked of seeking 
a more congenial atmosphere, the years slid by and still 
they remained in the handsome, well-furnished house at 
the corner of the High Street where they had been born 
and brought up and where their father and mother had 
lived, and loved, and died. 


148 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


With the advent of the two Miss Hetheringtons, 
Seville suddenly changed as far as Sadie was concerned. 
The change was connected with that sunny afternoon 
when she had walked across the courtyard and intro- 
duced herself to May. It was a change so subtle and so 
gradual that no ordinary observer would have noticed 
it. Phibbs did not. As far as he could see, Masterton 
still spent a good deal of his time in Sadie’s society. 
True, they did not go on pilgrimages together quite so 
often. But, seeing that the party now consisted of seven 
people, that was easily understood. The opportunities 
for a tete-a-tete were naturally fewer. 

But if Phibbs did not notice any difference, Sadie 
did. If she had been asked how she knew there was a 
difference, she would have been at a loss to explain. 
She felt there was a change. That was all she could 
have told anybody. 

Formerly Masterton had been active in planning; 
latterly he had become passive. Sadie saw the distance 
widen between them day by day. She did not try to 
bridge the gap. Unlike many women, she did not make 
the smallest attempt to draw him back again. American 
independence rebelled against that. And so a certain 
stiffness, a something that was not quite natural to her, 
crept into her manner. She was not so attractive as 
she had been before the arrival of the two Miss 
Hetheringtons. Her nationality became more pro- 
nounced; she seemed to glory in being a free-born 
American. Her independence of thought and in- 
dependence of manner made themselves felt, and 
irritated Masterton more and more. 

All the time, had they but known it, each was 
struggling for freedom, and becoming hot and cross 
and tired in the struggle. Sadie was certainly not at 


GOOD-BYE TO SEVILLE 


149 


her best during the latter part of her stay at Seville. 
Miss Hetherington told Masterton that, although in 
some ways she admired American women immensely, 
she considered them singularly lacking in charm. And 
Masterton was inclined to agree with her. 

Van Putten did not notice the comedy (or the 
tragedy) that was being enacted before his eyes. Sadie 
was not one of those people who make their nearest 
and dearest suffer for their own misfortunes, and so her 
father had no idea that war had broken out between 
Great Britain and America. In this case history had 
not repeated itself. The victory seemed to lie with 
Great Britain. Great Britain had captured the heart 
of America and then, having no further use for it, had 
politely returned the gift. And it was at this juncture 
of affairs that America read out publicly the Declara- 
tion of Independence. 

Every one was present. Miss Hetherington was 
discussing architecture with Masterton; Van Putten 
was amusing Miss Carrie with a graphic description of 
the Bowery; Phibbs and Sadie and May were all 
laughing together as if they had not a care in the 
world. Suddenly the silence that often attacks a group 
of people simultaneously fell. 

Miss Hetherington was the first to break it. 

“ Seville is the most enchanting town I have ever 
stayed in,” she said. “Don’t you agree with me, Miss 
Van Putten?” 

If she had asked Sadie her opinion a week before, 
Sadie would have been able to reply with a stricter 
regard to truth than at that moment. Miss Hetherington 
turned to Masterton. She was looking really hand- 
some. The heavily jetted net dress she wore suited 
her admirably; the transparent lace sleeve displayed 


150 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


to the fullest advantage the statuesque beauty of a 
perfectly shaped arm. 

“I’ve enjoyed Seville more than ever this last week,” 
she said. “It is such an advantage to go about with 
some one who really understands architecture.” 

“Now, don’t commence to flatter,” said Masterton, 
who could not help feeling a little pleased all the 
same. 

“I never flatter. I always say exactly what I think. 
You know that, Mr. Masterton. In France and Italy 
one can usually pick up a fairly reliable guide. But 
the Spanish guides are impossible.” 

“We shall have to say good-bye to Seville soon,” 
said Miss Carrie. 

“Where’s your next stopping-place?” asked Phibbs. 

“Cadiz.” 

“We’re going to Cadiz too,” said Masterton. “And 
are you going on to Cadiz, Mr. Van Putten?” inquired 
Miss Carrie. 

“You must ask my daughter,” said Van Putten. “I 
always leave everything to her.” 

Miss Carrie turned to Sadie. “You’ll come on to 
Cadiz with all of us, won’t you?” 

“No,” said Sadie very decisively. 

“You’ll regret it if you don’t,” said Phibbs. “If 
there’s one place you haven’t seen, people pounce on 
that place and bombard you with questions. You’d 
much better come on with all of us.” 

Masterton said nothing. Apparently the conversa- 
tion did not interest him. 

“Well?” said Phibbs, after a little pause. “Have 
you decided in favour of Cadiz?” 

And it was at this moment that America read out 
the Declaration of Independence. 


GOOD-BYE TO SEVILLE 


151 


“No,” said Sadie, “I’m afraid we can’t alter our plans. 
We’re leaving for Gibraltar by the first train in the 
morning.” 


In travelling no half-hour is more uncomfortable 
than the half-hour that precedes departure. The 
foreign hotel proprietor always makes a point of 
speeding the parting guest. He insists on the omnibus 
being at the door and the luggage stacked in the hall 
long before there is any real necessity. The general 
air of unrest is usually most disturbing to those visitors 
who do not happen to be leaving, and if they are wise 
they keep out of the way. 

On this occasion the two Miss Hetheringtons and 
May and Phibbs discreetly kept out of the way. 
Sadie was standing in the hall waiting for the last 
piece of luggage to be brought down; Leo, furrowed 
with anxiety, was giving directions to everybody in 
turn. 

“Always plenty of coming and going in these places,” 
said an English lady to Sadie. 

Faithfully obeying her husband’s express commands, 
she had been standing with her hat and jacket on for 
three-quarters of an hour, and therefore she had had 
ample time to watch the general movement. 

Just then the two Miss Hetheringtons came up, 
followed by May and Phibbs and (a little way behind) 
Masterton. 

“We’ve come to see the last of you,” said Miss 
Carrie. 

“If only you weren’t going,” whispered May; “you 
don’t know how I shall miss you.” 

“Most likely we shall meet again,” said^ Miss 
Hetherington cheerfully; “one travels in a circle.” 


152 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Masterton stepped forward and wished Sadie a 
pleasant journey. Sadie answered the conventionality 
in the same tone. The hotel porters hoisted the last 
piece of luggage and were duly tipped by Leo. There 
was nothing more to wait for. 

“Well, good-bye,” said Miss Carrie. “I hope we may 
meet again.” 

“Good-bye,” said Phibbs. “I’m awfully sorry our 
party is breaking up. I’ve got your address all right 
• — Hotel Cecil, Waterport Street.” 

The stout, pleasant proprietor was waiting for an 
opportunity to speak. He hoped that they had been 
comfortable and that he would have the great pleasure 
of seeing them again. 

Sadie found herself in the omnibus, nodding and 
waving her hand to the group at the door. 

The English lady who had been ready in such good 
time took the seat next her and repeated the remark 
she had previously made. 

“There’s always plenty of coming and going in these 
places.” 

“Yes,” said Sadie. 

Somehow she had not anticipated that it would be so 
hard to leave Seville. They were passing the Plaza del 
Triunfo. Earlier in the day rain had fallen; the drops 
still hung on the palms and glistened in the sunshine. 
She leaned her head far out of the window to catch a 
last glimpse of La Giralda. The bronze female figure 
on the top of the tower was motionless this morning; 
there was no wind to turn her. Sadie smiled to herself 
— a cynical little smile. Why had the weathercock 
been made in the shape of a woman? Was not a man 
every bit as changeable as a woman? 


CHAPTER XVII 


GIBRALTAR 

It was a week later, and the ferry plying between 
Algeciras and Gibraltar was about to start. May Viner, 
hemmed in by a well-dressed crowd, was trying to keep 
the two Miss Hetheringtons in sight; at her side 
strode Phibbs, carrying Miss Barbara’s dressing-bag. 
He had insisted on taking it, saying it was much too 
heavy for her. 

“I should like to know what’s inside,” he said, shifting 
the bag from one hand to the other. “If I didn’t know I 
should say it was loaded with lead.” 

“Cut-glass bottles with gold tops are heavy,” 
admitted May, looking admiringly at him. 

“And if I Wasn’t here, you’d have to carry it?” 

“Yes. You see, all the jewellery is packed in that 
bag, so Miss Hetherington is afraid to let a porter 
have it.” 

“I’ll fetch you a chair,” said Phibbs, depositing the 
bag beside May. 

There was a confused sound of many tongues on the 
steamer, but the dominant note was English. The 
English seemed naturally to take possession of the boat. 
They were not aggressive; they were perfectly well- 
mannered, but the least observant could see he was 
coming into the English zone. Masterton felt it with 
a little touch of pride. With a pleased air of pro- 
153 


154 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


prietorship he surveyed a merry group standing by the 
paddle-box. Two officers were laughing and talking 
with three girls, typically fair-skinned and blue-eyed, 
whose fresh cambric frocks and shady straw hats re- 
called visions of vicarage tennis-parties. A grey-haired 
mamma now and again looked up from the Lady’s 
Pictorial to join in the conversation. When a stout 
seafaring man came up and said, “Tickets please, sir,” 
Masterton felt more delighted than ever. A bit of 
England had been dumped into Spain. The effect was 
incongruous, but pleasing. He walked up and down, 
thinking over the events of the past week. He was 
obliged to admit to himself that he had missed Sadie 
very much. At first it had been soothing to find 
himself in such complete accord with Miss Barbara on 
the subject of architecture, but after a few days his 
favourite hobby had somehow ceased to interest him. 
He had missed Sadie terribly. He had missed her odd 
turns of speech, her inordinate love of anecdote, her 
quick sense of humour, and her unexpectedness. With 
her he had never felt dull. She had been like a fresh 
salt breeze, ruffling his prejudices and quickening him 
altogether. He dwelt with pleasant anticipation on the 
coming meeting. Phibbs had received a card from 
Gibraltar two days before; Sadie had made no mention 
of leaving. In reply, Phibbs had sent a card saying 
that after a week in Cadiz they intended crossing to 
Gibraltar shortly. Masterton himself had posted the 
card; he had therefore no doubt he would find the 
Van Puttens at the Hotel Cecil. 

The steamer suddenly gave a shrill whistle; they 
were entering the Bay. Masterton looked upon the 
rock with an odd thrill of kinship; he was Imperialist 
through and through. His eye travelled with satisfac- 


GIBRALTAR 



THE ROCK 





GIBRALTAR 


155 


tion from the signal-station to the lighthouse at Europa 
Point. As they passed through the Old Mole Gate, 
they were stopped by a Customs officer. But here 
again Great Britain favoured her children. “ British 
subject? thank you, sir.” 

Masterton, Phibbs, the two Miss Hetheringtons, and 
May were passed, while a French family immediately 
behind was held up. There were no cabs to be seen, 
so they walked on, each one mentally flying the 
Union Jack. 

Waterport Street was a moving mass of people on 
business and people on pleasure. It was almost im- 
possible to walk along the crowded, narrow pavement. 
As there was very little traffic, many preferred to walk 
in the road. 

There is something very friendly and homelike about 
Waterport Street. The shops are unpretentious. They 
remind one of the shops in an English seaside town. 
The red-coated soldiers, the men in khaki, and the 
Highlanders aid this illusion. Gibraltar is delightfully 
free and easy on the surface — underneath one feels the 
strong hand of discipline. As Masterton entered the 
hall of the Hotel Cecil, he felt pleased with himself 
and proud of England. He watched the two Miss 
Hetheringtons and May disappear in the lift, and then 
marched to the tiny office and ask^d for the visitors’ 
book. He soon found the names he was looking for, 
Written in Sadie’s characteristic handwriting — 

Jonas Van Putten, Esq. 

Miss Van Putten, New York City. 

Leo Roselli (Courier). 

“Mr. Van Putten has been staying here about a week, 
hasn’t he?” 


156 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


The clerk thought a moment. 

“Just a week, sir. Mr. Van Putten and party left 
this morning.” 

“Did he leave any address?” asked Masterton, as 
carelessly as he could. 

“He left no address, sir.” 

“Then you don’t know where he’s gone?” 

“One minute, sir. I’ll call George; he went down 
with the luggage.” 

Masterton waited impatiently. After a few minutes 
George appeared; he said the luggage had been booked 
for Algeciras. Masterton was surprised and disap- 
pointed. Apparently he had missed Sadie by a few 
hours only. While dressing for dinner an unwelcome 
idea obtruded itself. Was it possible that Sadie had left 
before his arrival intentionally? 

It was eleven o’clock the same evening. The lights 
in the corridor were out; most of the hotel visitors had 
gone to bed. In No. 27, however, a bright light was 
still burning. May, her arms plunged in a basin of hot 
water, was busy soaping Miss Barbara’s doeskin gloves. 
Mhen she had rinsed them she pinned them on to the 
long lace curtains by the open French window. Again 
she dived into the soapy water and brought up Miss 
Carrie’s lace cravat; once more and she secured three 
tiny embroidered handkerchiefs. That was really all. 
One more rinsing water and she would have finished. 
Half-past eleven struck. It was late to be working, but 
May did not mind; she did not want to remain at home 
on the morrow. Phibbs had spoken of visiting the 
Galleries. If the Miss Hetheringtons had their laces 
freshly starched and ironed, there was no reason why 
she should not go too. She cleared a space on the round 
table. Her shabby Bible and her mother’s photograph 


GIBRALTAR 


157 


found a temporary resting-place on the floor; the 
umbrellas and rugs which had been hastily put down 
on arriving she deposited in the fireplace. Then she 
folded a clean towel, ran to the window to satisfy 
herself that Miss Barbara’s doeskin gloves were not 
drying hard and stiff, and returned to her ironing. 
Twelve o’clock struck. May had nearly finished now. 
The various feiminne fripperies were sorted carefully, 
and as the clock struck one she tumbled into bed very 
tired, but happy in the thought that there was no reason 
why she should not visit the Galleries next day. 

But next day Miss Hetherington decided otherwise. 
Before coming down to breakfast she told her sister she 
was afraid they were taking May out of her proper 
place. 

“She’s a lady,” said Miss Carrie. “She’s been well 
brought up; she could go anywhere.” 

“That is so,” replied Miss Hetherington. “All the 
same, I don’t think we’re wise in throwing her so much 
into the society of those two young men. You know 
what silly fancies girls of her age take.” 

So it was decided that May should not accompany 
them on the excursion. May, knowing nothing of the 
disappointment in store, was particularly lively at 
breakfast. Afterwards Masterton and Phlbbs came up 
to know at what time the two Miss Hetheringtons 
would be ready to start. 

“I’ll order the carriage at once,” said Phibbs. “It 
must be a roomy one to take five.” 

“Only four, I think,” said Miss Hetherington. “ May 
is not coming with us.” 

“Not coming!” said Phibbs. “I’m sorry to hear 
that.” 

“We’ve had so much travelling lately and May has 


158 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


got a little behindhand. I want her to do one or two 
things for me this morning.’ ’ 

‘‘Miss Hetherington,” whispered May, “I’ve finished 
everything — the lace cravats and all.” 

She spoke so softly that nobody but Miss Hethering- 
ton heard what she said. 

“We may not be able to get a carriage for five,” said 
Miss Carrie, with a happy inspiration. 

“In that case, I won’t go,” said Masterton. “I’ll run 
across to Algeciras instead.” 

“Algeciras!” said Phibbs. “Why, we only left 
yesterday. What on earth do you want to go there 
for?” 

“Nothing particular. Only, it’s rather a good morn- 
ing for a sea- trip.” 

“But, of course, you want to see the Galleries?” 

“Of course I do,” replied Masterton, “and, after all, 
I can run across to Algeciras any time.” 

“Are you coming, Miss Viner?” asked Phibbs. 

May looked from one Miss Hetherington to the 
other. Her youth and inexperience made her hide her 
disappointment badly. 

“I’m afraid I can’t spare May,” said Miss Hetherington 
decisively. 

May went upstairs, and from her bedroom window 
watched the carriage drive off. Then she threw herself 
down by the table and, leaning her head on the pile of 
dainty laces, began to cry quietly. After a few seponds 
she stopped, as suddenly as she had begun, for she 
realised that her tears were wetting Miss Carrie’s lace 
cravats. They were quite limp and would certainly 
need ironing again. May took out her wet handker- 
chief, gave her eyes a final rub with it, and commenced 
to heat the spirit iron. 


GIBRALTAR 


159 


The two Miss Hetheringtons talked gaily during the 
long drive, and both Masterton and Phibbs schooled 
themselves to appear interested. In reality both men 
were occupied with their own affairs; but no one 
would have suspected this from their manner. 

Phibbs was disappointed that May was not allowed 
to be of the party. In consequence, his opinion of the 
two Miss Hetheringtons went down with a run. 

Formerly he had agreed with Masterton that they 
were sensible, agreeable women. Now he felt inclined 
to reconsider that verdict. It seemed to him that there 
had been no call for such an exhibition of petty 
tyranny. He recalled May’s disappointed face when 
the decision was given — the decision from which there 
had been no appeal. Poor little thing! How dis- 
appointed she had looked! 

During the walk through the Galleries Phibbs 
found himself thinking more and more of the little 
travelling companion. The soldier-guide’s explana- 
tion of the defences of the Empire fell on inattentive 
ears. 

And Masterton was in even worse plight. His 
conscious mind discussed universal military service 
with Miss Hetherington; his conscious mind insisted 
on relieving Miss Carrie of her grey alpaca dust-cloak. 
And all the while his sub-conscious mind was filled with 
thoughts of Sadie; all the while his sub-conscious 
mind was telling him that after lunch he would take 
the first boat to Algeciras, and he would go straight to 
the principal hotel, and he would find Sadie, and he 
would tell her what a dull week he had gone through 
without her. 

He suddenly became alive to the fact that Miss 
Hetherington was speaking to him. 


160 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“ We’ve seen as much as they’ll show us. Hasn’t it 
been interesting?” 

“ Exceedingly interesting,” replied Masterton, prompted 
by his conscious mind. ‘‘I’ve enjoyed the Galleries 
immensely.” 

“So have I!” echoed Miss Hetherington. 
“Immensely!” And then she turned to him with a 
little air of mystery. “Mr. Masterton,” she said, “I’ve 
something I want to say to you.” 

For a second Masterton had the awful feeling that 
his secret was about to be dragged out of its hiding- 
place. Perhaps his conscious mind had not been 
sufficiently on the alert. Perhaps he had said something 
stupid — done something stupid. In a state of acute 
nervous suspense he waited. 

“I hope you won’t be cross with me.” 

“I don’t think that’s very likely, Miss Hetherington.” 

“You know in these little matters women often have 
an extraordinary intuition.” 

When Masterton heard these words he determined 
there and then on a policy of boldness. He would 
deny that Sadie had ever been anything more to him 
then the merest passing acquaintance. He refused to 
make a confidant of Miss Hetherington. Why 
should he? 

Masterton was a self-contained man. For the shallow 
person who babbles out his private affairs to the first 
stranger he chances to meet he always felt nothing but 
contempt. Miss Hetherington might pump him as 
much as she pleased. He was resolved that she should 
draw nothing out of him. 

“At first I thought I would say nothing about it. 
Don’t you think it’s often the wisest plan to say 
nothing? 


GIBRALTAR 


161 


“I do,” replied Masterton, hoping by the fervour of 
his tones to check further speech. 

“I thought so at first; but this morning finally 
decided me.” 

Masterton’s mind ran rapidly over the events of the 
morning; he could not remember Sadie’s name having 
been mentioned. More and more puzzled, he waited 
anxiously. 

“May is only a child! And, of course, I feel more or 
less responsible for her.” 

Full of relief that Phibbs’ affairs and not his own were 
to be discussed, Masterton bent forward and prepared 
to listen and give his advice. 

“ Girls of her age are so foolish,” said Miss Hethering- 
ton, with a serene air of wisdom. 

“That is so,” replied Masterton. 

“They magnify the most trifling attention. I’m sure 
you understand, don’t you, why I thought it better that 
May should remain at home this morning?” 

“Perhaps you are right. I never looked at it in that 
light before.” 

“Of course, May was disappointed. But then life is 
full of disappointments; isn’t it, Mr. Masterton?” 

Just then they were interrupted by Phibbs, who, 
unaware that he was the topic of conversation, came up 
and asked for Miss Carrie’s dust-cloak. 

When the cloak had been given up and Phibbs was 
once more out of earshot, Miss Hetherington said — 

“I like Mr. Phibbs immensely; he’s so breezy. Have 
you known him long? ” 

“Ever since our schooldays.” 

“Perhaps, if you get an opportunity, you wouldn’t 
mind mentioning the little matter we were talking about 
just now.” 


162 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Masterton felt uncertain how his friend would put up 
with interference and said so. 

“But if you’re such friends,” argued Miss Hether- 
ington. 

“We are friends, but I don’t know that friendship 
justifies interference. You see, Phibbs has hardly 
mentioned Miss Viner’s name to me. Still, I’ll see what 
I can do.” 

“Thank you so much. Then you don’t think that 
Mr. Phibbs is serious?” 

“He’s probably never given the matter a thought. 
As far as I know, Phibbs is not a marrying man.” 

After lunch, without saying anything to Phibbs, 
Masterton slipped away quietly. In the hall he en- 
countered Miss Hetherington. She was reading. He 
passed by quickly, hoping she had not noticed him. 

“Mr. Masterton!” 

He stopped. 

“Oh, is that you, Miss Hetherington?” 

Turning, he went back. Not for the world would he 
have had Miss Hetherington guess where he was going. 
After all, the boats to Algeciras were very frequent. 
There was no need to catch the first one. Miss 
Hetherington indicated an empty basket-chair. He 
thanked her and sat down. 

“Have you made any plans for this afternoon?” 

“Phibbs said something about walking to the light- 
house.” 

Masterton hoped by saying this to avoid further 
questions. He was rewarded by Miss Hetherington 
immediately falling in with the plan. 

“We can have tea first then; the lighthouse isn’t 
very far.” 

Masterton decided that, as he had missed the first 


GIBRALTAR 


163 


boat, he might as well make himself agreeable until it 
was time for the next one. 

Unfortunately, however, Miss Hetherington, feeling he 
was not quite in his usual mood, searched diligently for 
a subject that would interest him. Like a well-meaning 
person who is trying to tempt the appetite of an invalid 
with some special dainty, she sought to tickle the 
intellectual palate of Masterton with a succulent morsel. 
And she decided in favour of Byzantine Art. 

Many people think that a bore is a person who talks 
badly about a subject in which his listener is not 
interested. But this is a very narrow definition. A 
person is a bore when you do not want him or her at a 
given moment. You may be intensely interested in 
the subject under discussion — it may even be your pet 
subject — your intellectual Benjamin. That is not the 
point. The point is that you are not interested at a 
given moment. 

For instance, try and imagine a veteran General 
deep in conversation with a young Lieutenant. The 
Lieutenant is fully aware of the honour paid him. 
He is keen on his profession; he knows the General’s 
reminiscences are well worth listening to. But the 
distant strains of a military band tell him he is missing 
a delightful waltz with a favourite partner, and he 
unhesitatingly places the General in the category of 
bores. 

This was so with Masterton at the present moment. 
In the ordinary way he considered Miss Hetherington 
a capital talker. She knew more about architecture 
than any woman he had ever met. She had even told 
him one or two things he did not know himself. And 
he had more than dipped into the subject. Byzantine 
Art had a peculiar attraction for him; but he had 


164 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


already lost one boat and was likely to lose the next, 
and therefore (most unfairly) he decided that Miss 
Hetherington was a bore. 

At last there was a pause; Masterton got up. 

“I think I’ll just stroll down to the harbour,” he said. 

Miss Hetherington was essentially a woman of the 
world. She never detained a man against his will. 
Therefore, when Masterton signalled that the conversa- 
tion was to stop, she replied to the signal at once. 

“You men always find ships and harbours fascinating, 
don’t you? I mustn’t waste any more time either; I’ve 
half a dozen letters to write.” 

Masterton hurried down to the harbour; the Algeciras 
steamer was lying alongside the pier. As he drew near 
he saw the men preparing to cast off. He ran as hard 
as he could and had the satisfaction of catching the 
ferry by the fraction of a second. When he had 
recovered his breath, he sat down near the paddle-box 
and mapped out the afternoon. If he were fortunate 
enough to find Sadie, there would not be much difficulty 
in passing the time. It was barely a week since he 
had last seen her, but it was astonishing what a number 
of th’ngs he wanted to tell her. If Sadie was out, he 
would amuse himself in Algeciras and return to the hotel 
later. In that case, he decided to dine with the Van 
Puttens and catch the last boat back. 

He walked up the steps of the hotel and into the 
entrance hall, which was empty. There were no 
uniformed porters about to interrogate — not even a lift 
boy. He selected the most comfortable rocking-chair 
with the satisfied air of one who has reached the end 
’f the journey. No one came to him. At last he went 
to the bureau, and, finding that empty also, returned 
o the hall. After another five minutes had passed, he 


GIBRALTAR 


165 


returned once more to the bureau; a good-looking Swiss 
confronted him. 

“You require rooms, sir?” 

“No, thanks. I just called to inquire about a friend 
of mine — a Mr. Van Putten. He’s staying here, I 
believe.” 

“Van Putten— Van Putten,” echoed the Swiss, turning 
the leaves of the visitor’s book. “Ah yes! Van Putten 
— here it is!” 

“Are they in?” 

“No, sir. They are out.” 

“Of course, I hardly expected to find them in such a 
beautiful afternoon. Will you tell Mr. Van Putten when 
he comes in that Mr. Masterton has called?” 

“Very good, sir.” 

“And will you also tell him that I’ll look back about 
dinner-time, if I can manage it? ” 

Masterton killed time for the next three hours. There 
was just a chance that he would come across Van Putten 
and his daughter in the town, but he saw nothing of 
them. At four o’clock he whiled away half an hour 
over a cup of tea, and afterwards he wandered down to 
the quay and watched the boats coming in and going out. 

At a quarter past six he decided that it would not be 
too soon to return to the hotel. By this time the 
entrance hall was crowded. The train from Seville had 
just arrived. Porters in green baize aprons were rushing 
hither and thither with kit-bags and hold-alls. The 
new arrivals were standing about in the dejected 
attitude peculiar to new arrivals. They were all a little 
dusty and a little cross; not a few of them were of 
the opinion that the pleasure of travel is overrated. 
Masterton withdrew to the quietest corner he could 
find and waited patiently. 


166 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Gradually the hall became clearer. The heavier 
luggage disappeared; only the travelling rugs and 
umbrellas and cameras remained. The lift, containing 
the last weary passenger, started on its last journey. 
Masterton felt that now it was possible for him to secure 
a little attention. Once more he sought the bureau. 

The handsome Swiss was not there; a somewhat 
older man was busy sorting letters. Masterton tapped 
against the wood of the desk to attract his attention. 

“Has Mr. Van Putten come in yet?” 

The mail had just arrived. The man, who was 
carefully arranging the letters in alphabetical order, 
paused with his forefinger on a pile beginning with “ J.” 
Then, with a flash of recollection, he said — 

“Are you the gentleman who came when I was out? 
Oh yes! I remember! You saw Fritz!” 

Masterton began to get impatient. It did not seem 
to him of vital importance if he had seen Fritz, or Jean, 
or Baptiste, or Carlo. This man laid such stress on the 
fact that he had seen Fritz. 

“Did Fritz give Mr. Van Putten my message?” 

“Oh no! that was not possible.” 

“He promised to do so,” said Masterton, getting 
angry. 

“Fritz did not understand — he made a mistake — • 
Mr. Van Putten is not staying here — ” 

“Not staying here?” 

“He stay for one night only. He left this morning.” 

“Do you know where he’s gone?” 

“No, sir; he left no address. I asked him if I should 
forward his letters, but he told me he was not expecting 
any.” 

“When is there a boat back to Gibraltar?” 

“Not until eight o’clock, sir.” 


GIBRALTAR 


167 


Masterton turned away, feeling the afternoon had 
been most unprofitable. The eight-o’clock boat would 
get him in too late for dinner. There was nothing to be 
done but to stay and dine by himself. 

He caught the nine-o’clock boat; very few people 
were crossing by it. He lighted a cigarette and walked 
up and down, counting his probable chances of meeting 
Sadie again. If only he knew where he would be most 
likely to find her! He remembered her saying one day 
that she would rather like to see Ronda. He wondered 
if it would be worth while going there on chance. 

He could not help feeling aggrieved. Like many 
theorists, he was a man who invariably sighed for what 
was just out of his reach. The Sadie who had vanished 
without leaving a trace behind her seemed to him a 
more desirable Sadie than the frank, independent 
travelling companion who had been so ready to enjoy 
his society. He left the boat and walked dejectedly 
up Waterport Street. In the hotel lounge he found 
Phibbs, and he greeted him with forced gaiety, feeling 
ridiculously self-conscious all the time. 

“Hello!” said Phibbs, “we wondered what had 
become of you.” 

“I’ve been over to Algeciras.” 

“Anything much to see there?” 

“It isn’t a bad little place. I should have been back 
before, but I missed the seven-o’clock boat.” 

Masterton took up a four-days-old Telegraph and 
tried to appear interested in it. Then it struck him 
that now would be a most opportune moment to 
speak to Phibbs on the subject Miss Hetherington 
had mentioned that morning. 

Phibbs listened very quietly, and said nothing. 

“Of course,” wound up Masterton, “women are very 


168 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


silly over such things. I told her that most probably 
you’d never given the matter a thought. I gave her to 
understand that you were not a marrying man.” 

A fatuous smile crossed Phibbs’ good-tempered face. 

“Well, what’s the joke?” asked Masterton. “What 
are you laughing at?” 

“Why, at what you’ve just said. I asked May Viner 
to marry me half an hour ago.” 

The time in Gibraltar passed very pleasantly for 
everybody except Masterton. He was the only one 
who was anxious to leave. They were going on to 
Granada; there was just a chance that at Granada he 
would find Sadie. Had it not been for the fear of 
missing the Van Puttens altogether, he would have 
settled down to enjoy himself. 

The town is such a delightful mixture of English and 
Spanish, and Moorish, and Jewish. There is something 
incongruous in meeting a white-robed Moor one minute 
and a kilted Highlander the next. And such good 
feeling always seems to prevail everywhere; the casual 
visitor can see that the varying elements blend in a 
most harmonious whole. 

The little party found plenty to do in the town. 
There were not many walks. They usually ended 
by going either to the Alameda or the lighthouse at 
Europa Point. 

But there is the harbour with the ships continually 
going out and coming in. And for the people who 
want more amusement there are the Operas at the 
Theatre Royal and the Dramas at the Assembly 
Rooms. The two Miss Hetheringtons and May and 
Phibbs were enjoying themselves thoroughly, and 
were a little surprised to find that Masterton was 


GIBRALTAR 


169 


not equally enthusiastic. He was feeling strangely 
depressed. As often as not, he refused to accompany 
the others on their little excursions. One afternoon 
when they had all gone to the Alameda to hear the 
band play, he came out of the entrance of the Hotel 
Cecil wondering what on earth he should do with 
himself until dinner-time. 

In spite of French and German and Spanish shops, 
in spite of graceful Moors who float about like so many 
white- winged birds, Waterport Street remains the most 
typically English street in existence. 

What a contrast to some of the Spanish towns he 
had passed through! He thought of Toledo with its 
Oriental maze of main street; he recalled Seville 
swarming with beggars; he dwelt on Burgos, grim 
and cheerless, with its characteristic groups of loafers 
(swathed in blankets) which are to be met with at 
every street-corner. Here, life was in full swing, but it 
was orderly life — life under the sanction and control 
of the British Government. No other country in the 
world leaves its mark quite so distinctly as Great 
Britain — Masterton felt proud that this was so. 

Up the street came the faint sounds of Chopin’s 
“Funeral March.” 

What an odd thing for the band to play, he thought; 
and .then he understood, for the knots of idlers in the 
roadway began to back on to the narrow pavement. 
Masterton followed suit and waited — hemmed in by a 
group of Tommies. 

“It’s ’ard luck being bowled over at twenty- three,” 
said one. 

“Gime for anything,” eulogised another. 

“Did I ever tell you what ’appened the day afore 
’e took ill ” 


170 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Shut up!” said the first man; “can’t you see ’e’s 
coming.” 

The music, which before had merely tickled the ear 
now hammered out the solemn, haunting melody. In 
silence the gun-carriage passed on its way. Here, in 
English Gibraltar, the ugly national custom of remaining 
covered in the presence of death did not prevail. Every 
hat was lifted and every Tommy raised his hand in 
salute. 

“Poor ’ole Bill,” said one of his comrades. “Wot 
are you larfin’ at?” he went on savagely to his com- 
panion. “Of course, it may be very funny, but bio wed 
if I can see the joke.” 

Thus rebuked, the offender tried to regulate his 
countenance, the result being a most comical contortion. 

“’Twas the sight of Pi Prim set me off,” he said, in 
defence. “You remember the joke ’ole Bill played 
on him. Lord, ’ow I larfed that day!” 

A grin again overspread his countenance, but this 
time his companion detected the break in his voice 
and did not rebuke him. 

Hardly knowing why he did it, Masterton followed 
the procession until he came under the shadow of the 
Rock. He watched the long red line curve round it, 
but he himself went no farther. Not being one of the 
dead soldier’s comrades, he did not want to intrude. 
But an indefinable sense of common kinship held him. 
The place where he was standing might have been 
English meadow land. Two or three cows were grazing 
quietly, and some children on a see-saw were laughing 
and shouting with shrill voices. And in the distance 
across the green fields a patch of scarlet marked the 
open grave. Masterton was not a religious man; he 
never went to church if he could possibly avoid it. 



GIBRALTAR 



A SOLDIER S FUNERAL 




GIBRALTAR 


171 


Yet almost unconsciously he found himself repeating 
the sublime words of the burial service: “We there- 
fore commit his body to the ground; earth to earth; 
ashes to ashes; dust to dust; in sure and certain hope 
of the Resurrection . . 

The sense of almost personal injury which had struck 
him on hearing the dead man had been robbed of his 
three score years and ten left him. He glanced up at 
the Rock. How many generations of men had fought 
and died in the struggle to possess it! What, after 
all, were a few years more or a few years less? 

Boom! boom! boom! 

He started as the three volleys rent the air. The 
big scarlet patch was crumbling into several smaller 
patches. The soldiers were re-forming into line. 
Another minute and the word of command was shouted : 
“Attention — Stand at ease! Quick march!” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


TANGIER 

A blue sea, and in the distance Tangier steeped in 
sunshine; and dazzling in its white purity. Near the 
paddle-box of a small steamer Van Putten and Sadie 
were standing. They were watching with keen interest 
the ineffectual struggles of a rowing boat. Tossed 
hither and thither, the small craft was approaching the 
steamer with great difficulty. At one moment she was 
carried forward on the crest of a huge wave, only to 
be driven back the next. The rowers kept steadily 
to their task, and at last the boat glided into the calm 
water lapping the lee-side of the vessel. Immediately 
a terrific clamour began. Every man started up and 
commenced bargaining, while Sadie looked on, amused 
at the commotion. There was something incongruous 
in these dignified Moors shrieking their demands in 
such public fashion. She did not understand a word; 
it was no use appealing to Leo, so she turned to Shahib. 
Decidedly, Shahib was an imposing figure. His face 
was handsome; his eyes could be soulful or saucy as 
occasion required, and his spotless white burnous and 
red fez set off his dark beauty. He was a recent 

acquisition, having been engaged by Leo as guide 
the previous day. As mark of his high office Shahib 
brandished a stick, which served many purposes. With 
it he could prod a refractory donkey or point out the 
172 


TANGIER 


173 


beauties of the Kashbah; he could clear a path through 
the Great Socco or lean on his staff when he was 
weary. Shahib and his staff were inseparable, and 
familiar to every brown baby in Tangier. 

Amidst an indescribable din the Moor stood unmoved 
— a king among his subjects. 

“Aw this delay is awful rot,” he drawled, “but it 
can’t be helped.” 

Shahib was very fond of using slang; he had acquired 
the art some years before when in service with an 
English officer at Gibraltar. 

At last the bargaining was completed and Shahib 
issued his commands. 

“Aw . . . put your arm round the fellah’s neck . . .” 
he called out to Sadie, who was standing at the foot of 
the companion ladder. 

She did as she was told, and the next moment was 
deposited safely in the lurching boat. Van Putten 
followed — then Leo. More squabbling — a dignified 
protest from Shahib — a flashing of brown arms, and 
the heavy oars swung forward in unison. 

“Tangier looks beautiful,” said Sadie, as they neared 
the rough landing-stage. 

“Yes,” replied Van Putten, “but it somehow puts 
me in mind of the Biblical outside of the platter. These 
folks don’t trouble about keeping the inside of the 
platter clean.” 

“The view is very fine,” said Shahib. 

“I don’t deny the view’s fine, but the place is 
re-markably dirty.” 

“Yes,” replied Shahib, “in Tangier it is better to 
ride than to walk. I have ordered donkeys — they are 
heah.” 

They mounted. Shahib sat his donkey proudly, his 


174 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


spotless burnous almost sweeping the ground, his staff 
held in a slanting position in readiness to cut a way 
before him. 

The procession started; the hoofs of the donkey 
clattered along the rough, narrow street. Such a 
screaming and chattering and mingling of many smells, 
many sounds, and many tongues! Sadie felt confused 
— deafened. Once their progress was barred. Two 
opposing donkeys had collided. One was laden with 
water-pots — the other with bricks. The man with the 
bricks tried to pass the right side — the man with the 
water-pots decided to take the left. Neither would 
budge. It would be beneath the dignity of either 
to change his course. The man with the water-pots 
hit the donkey with the bricks; the man with the 
bricks hit the donkey with the water-pots. Shahib, 
with his seeing eye, took in the situation. He lifted 
his staff and belaboured both donkeys indiscriminately. 
The men, bowing at once to authority, allowed him 
to pass on. At last they saw the hotel. Far removed 
from the noisy street, it lay back from the road, white 
and cool, with a plot of green turf stretching down to 
the edge of the blue water. 

After the clamour outside, the hotel seemed strangely 
quiet. The large room on the ground floor was half 
shuttered because of, the strong light; the table was laid 
for lunch. With a little gasp of relief, Sadie sank into 
a chair. 

“I had a sort of idea that New York City 
was noisy,” she said, “but it’s silent compared with 
Tangier.” 

Two Arab servants with bare feet glided noiselessly 
over the polished floor. Sadie watched them lazily. 
Already the subtle Eastern magic had begun to work in 


TANGIER 






M«H lift If | Mlllll ffimiMlltlt s«*"' 

JJI* 


LANDING AT TANGIER 


THE HOTEL CECIL 















TANGIER 


175 


her veins. People who winter year after year in Egypt 
would probably have laughed at her enthusiasm. The 
sight of a burnous no longer throws them into an ecstasy; 
and they do not see in every veiled woman a beauty of 
the harem. But Tangier was Sadie’s first peep into 
Eastern life. She was glad to be so entirely taken out 
of herself, for one impression often casts out another. 
She wanted to forget that month in Seville; she had left 
Gibraltar as soon as she heard that Masterton intended 
joining them there. He had shown plainly he did not 
care for her. She, in her turn, must not attempt to 
delude herself. Sadie did not consciously follow the 
Christian Scientist’s dictum. But unconsciously, because 
the brain is so important a part in the organism of 
every American woman, she kept her mind occupied. 
As if in sympathy with her thoughts, Van Putten looked 
up suddenly and said — 

“ We’re having a 'bully’ time, aren’t we, Sadie?” 

“We are,” said Sadie. 

“I’m not sorry we’re alone again. One feels free 
somehow. I’m not saying anything against those 
young men — I liked them extremely. But to my mind 
the average Englishman spoils himself by wearing a 
fourteen-and-a-haff-inch collar with a fifteen-inch neck. 
The collar digs into him horribly, but your true Briton 
won’t take it off. And why? B e-cause it happens to 
be the correct wear.” 

From outside came the sound of sparring; Shahib 
was arranging with the donkey-men for the afternoon’s 
excursion. Judging from the angry voices, it was diffi- 
cult to settle matters amicably. At last he came in 
calm and dignified. His black eyes had the far-away 
soulful look that might have been expected from a study 
of the Koran. 


176 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


‘‘I’m afraid I’ve been rather long,” he began, “but 
these aw — beggars need careful management.” 

They went out. The donkeys were ranged in a line; 
leaning against the white wall were the donkey-men in 
coffee-brown caftans. When the Van Puttens appeared, 
squabbling began afresh. But Shabib silenced every- 
body by pointing to the animals he had been pleased 
to select. 

The procession started. Shahib led the way on his 
white donkey. Sadie followed, then Van Putten and 
Leo. In the full blaze of the afternoon sun they 
descended into the town. There was not a breath of 
air. The breeze, which had been blowing earlier in the 
day, had suddenly died down. The somnolent air had 
the heavy leathery smell of the East — a characteristic 
smell which is like the distilled essence of millions of 
morocco slippers. 

Apparently the inhabitants of Tangier did not take a 
siesta; the Great Socco was thronged. In the middle 
Shahib pulled up with the air of a showman commenc- 
ing an exhibition. He always stopped at this particular 
point to watch the effect produced. Experience had 
taught him that the Anglo-Saxon is chary of expression. 
Sometimes he conducted parties of French tourists, 
and their exclamations always filled him with delight. 
He planned his excursions carefully with an Oriental 
eye to dramatic effect. When the audience was unre- 
sponsive his mobile face darkened with displeasure. He 
glanced at Sadie. She was looking about her with eyes 
quick to seize every impression. Shahib was satisfied. 

He began to point out the various groups. Did they 
see the women in the corner shrouded in white? They 
were the divorced women and were penalised in a droll 
fashion. It was their business to bake bread for the 


TANGIER 



SHAHIB ON HIS WHITE DONKEY 



A STREET IN TANGIER 






TANGIER 


177 


city. “Bo your divorced women bake bread?” 
asked Shahib. The Moor never lost an opportunity of 
asking questions. He was always anxious to study the 
methods of other countries. 

Van Put ten raised his eyebrows and a smile slanted 
the length of his face. 

“My dear sir,” he said, “if all the divorced women in 
the States were em-ployed making bread, I guess the 
supply would exceed the demand.” 

At that moment a young girl came up and asked for 
money. Full of grace, she peeped from the shelter of 
her veil. For a second there was a glimpse of flashing 
tawny eyes — for a second only. Then, as if ashamed, 
she drew the folds more closely about her and, mys- 
terious being that she was, floated away. Sadie was 
fascinated with this busy life of buying and selling. It 
brought back to her mind the favourite game of her 
childhood — playing at shops. In many cases the stock 
in trade was equally small — a pyramid of moist dates, 
a dozen oranges, a few pairs of bright yellow slippers. 
And for such trifles these noisy children battered and 
squabbled and lived and died. 

“To-morrow is Mahomet’s birthday,” said Shahib. 
“Do you see those boys leading that young bullock? 
They are taking it to the Mosque to be sacrificed.” 

Sadie caught a glimpse of a white minaret in the 
distance, and felt reproved. Even this rabble recognised 
something beyond. To-morrow they were going to 
sacrifice to Mahomet. 

Shahib’s big white donkey halted; the other animals 
followed suit. This part of the Great Socco was quieter. 
The faint discordant tootling of bagpipes could be 
distinguished. 

The player was sitting cross-legged on the ground; 


178 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


for the moment his lithe brown body was in repose. 
Beside him were several bulging bags. Sadie had a 
horror of reptiles; she knew those bulging bags con- 
tained snakes, which by and by would coil and uncoil 
themselves round the brown body of the cross-legged 
man. She longed to turn away. But Shahib was 
watching her, so she composed herself to look, saying 
she had never seen an exhibition of the kind before. 

The bagpipes went on playing, but apparently the 
snakes were not attracted by the musician’s plaintive 
notes. At last there was a movement from one of the 
bulging bags. Through the tiny aperture a snake 
cautiously protruded his head, and then, slowly, deliber- 
ately fastened himself on to the body of the cross-legged 
man. Sinuously the reptile curled and uncurled, 
spiralling the flashing brown arm of the performer, 
serpentining about his neck. There he hung motionless 
— head downwards. 

“Aw — don’t you think it’s a clevah performance?” 
asked Shahib. 

There was a pause. The snake charmer struck an 
attitude. Act I. was over. More bagpipes — the music 
this time of a somewhat wilder description. 

“Watch carefully,” said Shahib; “in a minute you 
will see the snake bite the man.” 

The reptile’s movements became a shade quicker — 
the hideous music was having an awakening effect. 
The snake was being goaded into activity; the cross- 
legged man sat expectant. There was a sudden flash 
of red gum and white teeth. Then, full of pride, he 
displayed his tongue bitten through. Act II. was over. 
Act III. was more rapid. The piping ceased suddenly. 
The snake charmer hastily tumbled the snakes into the 
bag while the musician began to collect money. 




THE GREAT SOCCO 







TANGIER 


179 


“Very interesting,” said Van Putten to Shahib. 
“And what do you propose to show us next?” 

Shahib thought that perhaps they might like to listen 
to the Story-tellers. A tall, grey-haired man was busy 
declaiming. Judging by the interested faces of his 
hearers, he was apt at his art. The Story-teller’s expres- 
sion varied every instant. First he was indignant, then 
calm, then persuasive. And the audience waited eagerly 
for every word. On their faces was the intent look 
often seen on the faces of children when a grown-up is 
telling a favourite tale — the look that says plainly, 
“Don’t stop; do go on.” 

“If I could only understand what he’s talking 
about!” exclaimed Sadie regretfully. 

“I suppose,” said Shahib, “that you also have Story- 
tellers in your country?” 

“We have,” said Van Putten, “but I like your system 
best.” 

“It’s certainly picturesque,” said Sadie, fixing her 
eyes on the eager group. 

“Picturesque and cheap,” answered Van Putten; “a 
saving of time and money. No publishers — no combines 
— no Times Book Clubs. America might very well 
im-port the idea.” 

They left the Great Socco and passed into the over- 
crowded Jewish quarter. The heat was stifling; the 
donkeys ambled leisurely. Shahib stopped in front of 
a dark uninviting house. A nondescript crowd was 
gathered outside; on the ground squatted three tattered 
musicians playing a dismal air on the bagpipes. 

“Evidently this is a very favourite form of music 
with you,” said Van Putten. 

“Aw — y^s,” replied Shahib, “especially on days of 
rejoicing. This is a wedding party.” 


180 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Van Putten gave a glance at the gloomy shuttered house. 

“If you hadn’t informed me I should have said there 
was a funeral pro-ceeding. In fact, I’ve seen many 
funerals with more go about them. Can we see the 
bride and bridegroom? Are they on view?” 

“Not until to-morrow,” replied Shahib. “The 
musicians are serenading the bride. It’s the custom 
here — aw — a curious custom. They will keep on play- 
ing all through the night.” 

“I’m glad I’m not going to get married,” said Van 
Putten, in heartfelt tones, as he followed Shahib’s white 
donkey. They were leaving the crowded town and 
were making straight for the Marshan. As they climbed 
the air blew across from the sea. The breeze was refresh- 
ing after the stuffiness of the town below. For some time 
they continued along the cliff side, then Shahib branched 
off abruptly to the left. They found themselves in a 
narrow lane with a thick hedge of cactus and pink 
geranium on either side. 

They were nearing a Berber village. Some children 
bound for one of the mud-huts walked alongside the 
donkeys, their black eyes fixed on the strangers. 
Sadie’s donkey-man seized one toddler and hoisted him 
on to his shoulder. The brat sat there, his little brown 
legs dangling, his tiny head shaven and shorn in 
monkish fashion. Sadie wanted to remark on the imp’s 
odd appearance, but, not knowing a word of Arabic, was 
obliged to be silent. 

The man, interpreting her thoughts, smiled, showing 
his beautiful white teeth. 

“Baby Moor! yes, missy,” he said. The Baby Moor 
was deposited at the first of the mud-huts and the way 
was continued — a way that led circuitously back to the 
Great Socco. 


TANGIER 



TOWARDS THE MARSHAN 



A BERBER HUT 




TANGIER 


181 


There is a pause in the general activity — a hint of 
approaching evening. The cries are less raucous, the 
vendors less quarrelsome, the atmosphere less hard. 
Here the waning sun lights a saffron-coloured slipper, 
there it deepens the brown of a burnous. Half in half 
out of shadow stand a string of camels from Fez, laden 
with dates. A vaporous golden haze hangs over the 
Socco. Tangier, like an Eastern woman, is veiling 
herself. 


On the way back to the hotel Shahib stopped to 
speak to a Moor who was handsomely dressed in a red 
suit embroidered with gold. 

Ali Khassan!” said Shahib, introducing him. 

. Ali Khassan, who was holding by the hand a 
girl of about ten years of age, salaamed gravely. 

This gentleman and his daughter come 
America, ’ said Shahib; “I have been showing 
Tangier.” 


little 

from 

them 


And have you been pleased?” said Ali Khassan 
politely. 

He-lighted,” replied Van Putten. “Of course, our 
country is so up-to-date that much that goes on here 
strikes us as very cu-rious.” 

Ali Khassan’s little girl interested Sadie. Her 
childish face was so appealing; her attitude charmingly 
graceful and clinging. Some one else was interested in 
Ali Khassan’s little girl. Shahib’s bold eyes never 
moved from the pale, innocent face. 

After a few minutes Ali Khassan salaamed again, 
more profoundly than before, and continued his walk, 
his little girl clinging to him as if for protection. 

Aw pretty little girl, isn’t she?” said Shahib 
jauntily; “her father is very proud of her.” 

How is it she is not veiled?” inquired Sadie. 


182 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Aw — that will be latah — next year perhaps. If in 
three or four years’ time I desire to marry Suleika ” 

“You marry Suleika!” exclaimed Sadie. “But she’s 
only a child — a baby.” 

“She will grow older,” said Shahib. “For the sake 
of argument, say that I wish to marry Suleika. I have 
not seen her face for two years, but I remembah that 
she is very pretty. I go to her father — it is all arranged. 
I am very good friends with Ali Khassan; sometimes I 
lend him money.” 

A sudden loathing of the Oriental took possession of 
Sadie. This traffic in human life shocked her American 
sense of freedom. Poor little Suleika! poor, helpless 
lamb powerless between two wolves. The trifling 
incident made her understand better than a volume of 
argument the position of the woman in the East. 

With the setting sun had come a chilliness in the air. 
When they reached the hotel Sadie went into the 
drawing-room, where she was glad to find a wood fire 
burning. A lady was sitting there knitting. 

“Do come near the fire and get warm,” said she; 
“the nights are very chilly just now.” 

Sadie knelt down on the hearth-rug. The room was 
plainly furnished, but the crackling fire and the motherly 
lady gave a delightful touch of homeliness. 

“I think I saw you arrive. Are you making a long 
stay?” 

“Only a few days,” replied Sadie. “And you?” 

“One — two — three — four,” said the lady, counting 
her stitches aloud. “I live here; my boy is at the 
German Bank; there are only the two of us and I 
couldn’t bear to be parted from him, so I sold my house 
and came out to him.” She spoke as if it was the 
most natural thing in the world for a middle-aged 


TANGIER 




TANGIER IN THE DISTANCE 



CAMELS FROM FEZ 





TANGIER 


183 


woman to be uprooted. “ Five — six — seven — eight.” 
The ball of grey yarn rolled on to the ground. 

“And do you like Tangier?” asked Sadie, as she 
picked it up. 

“ Nine — ten — eleven — twelve. I don’t know much 
of Tangier; I scarcely ever go into the town.” 

“But the town is so interesting; we’ve been in the 
Socco all the afternoon.” 

“One — two — three — four. Yes, strangers are 
always amused with the Socco. But I never go there if 
I can help it; I prefer to keep away from the noise.” 

“Do you have many visitors here?” inquired Sadie. 

“Sometimes the hotel is very full and then, again, it 
remains empty for weeks.” 

Sadie would like to have asked if the days were not 
very long. Evidently the lady was not fond of study- 
ing Oriental life. What did she find to do? 

“Isn’t it dull for you away from all your friends?” 

“Oh no! I keep myself busy. I have a large corre- 
spondence, and then I do a good deal of work for the 
deep-sea fishermen.” 

“Are these for the deep-sea fishermen?” asked 
Sadie, fingering the shapeless mass of knitting. 

“Yes; these are gauntlets. They keep the cold out 
beautifully.” 

“And you’re never dull?” Sadie asked the question 
doubtfully. To an American the life did not sound 
exhilarating. 

“Dull! Oh no! You see, I have my son.” 

The son came into the room at that moment. 

“Well, mater,” he said breezily, “busy as usual?” 

The mother smiled at him tenderly. He invariably 
made the same remark; she invariably smiled the same 
acknowledgment. It was as much a part of her daily 


184 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


life as saying her prayers morning and evening. But to 
Sadie the smile was a revelation. She had long recog- 
nised the gulf dividing the English woman from the 
American. Many people thought that the American 
had better brains. Sadie did not think so. She used 
her brains more, perhaps; but in so doing she often 
starved her heart. She recalled Professor de Castro’s 
last lecture and his dictum that the American woman 
has millions of theories, but no ideal. Was it true? 
She thought of her own married friends, who were proud 
of their children and who denied them nothing. Then 
she looked at the mother placidly knitting — at the son 
contentedly toasting his brown boots in front of the 
blazing fire. It was easy to see that this stout, middle- 
aged woman had an ideal. Sadie had never seen quite 
the same look on an American woman’s face as she had 
surprised between this mother and son. 

“This lady only arrived this morning,” said the 
mother, fixing a fresh skein of yarn on to the young 
man’s large, well-shaped hands and preparing to wind 
the wool into a ball. 

“Yes,” said Sadie, “we only arrived this morning, 
but we’ve seen a great deal in the time. Isn’t the Socco 
wonderful?” 

“Strangers always rave about the Socco,” said young 
Maxwell, with the tolerant air of an old inhabitant. 

“We were very lucky,” said Sadie. “We saw the 
dervishes and the snake charmer and ” 

“And an Eastern wedding,” put in the young man. 

“How did you know there was a wedding this after- 
noon?” 

“There’s always a wedding when the boat comes in 
from Gibraltar or Algeciras. It is turned on for the 
benefit |of the tourist.” 


TANGIER 


185 


“Now, I call that a shame,” said Sadie. “I thought 
we’d been remarkably fortunate — Shahib told us so.” 

“Have you got Shahib towing you round? Isn’t he 
entertaining? He’s known here as Piccadilly Billy.” 

“His accent is just lovely,” said Sadie. 

“Yes; he picked that up in Gibraltar. He valeted 
an officer for some time. Is he taking you anywhere 
to-night? ” 

“I don’t know,” said Sadie; “I’ll ask my father.” 

“If your father hasn’t arranged anything, I shall be 
very pleased to show you a Moorish coffee-house. If 
you’ve never seen one, you’ll enjoy it.” 

“Isn’t the Moorish coffee-house run for the benefit 
of the tourist?” 

“No; this particular one is not dependent on the boat 
from Gib.” 

Just then Van Putten came in and Sadie hastened to 
introduce him to the Maxwells. 

“Happy to meet you!” said the American genially. 

As they crossed the hall they encountered Leo, and 
Sadie could not refrain from telling him that the Eastern 
wedding had been arranged for their especial benefit. 
Leo listened in silence; the travelling frown appeared 
on his forehead. 

“Mademoiselle, I do my best; eet ees not all cut and 
dried.” Pie glanced at young Maxwell with disapproval 
and added, “There are some people who will peek ’oles 
in everything.” 

Sadie, sorry for the little man’s sensitiveness, felt 
reproved. As she passed into the dining-room she said 
to Maxwell — 

“Leo is right. It doesn’t do to be one of those who 
peek ’oles in everything.” 

It was arranged that they should visit the Moorish 


186 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


coffee-house at nine o’clock. A few minutes before the 
hour young Maxwell appeared in the drawing-room; 
Sadie was sitting there with his mother. 

“ Good-night, mother,” he said, kissing her; “ I suppose 
you’ll be gone to bed before we return.” 

“ I’m going to finish this cuff, and then I shall play a 
game of patience. Good-night, my boy. Mind you take 
care of Miss Van Putten.” 

“ Mother distrusts the inhabitants of Tangier,” said 
Maxwell to Sadie as they joined Van Putten, who was 
smoking a cigar outside. 

The young man paused to fight the lantern he was 
carrying. 

“I could find my way blindfold,” he explained, “but 
I’m taking a lantern in case there’s no moon later.” 

They passed through several deserted streets; there 
was no sign of fife either within doors or without. 
Maxwell apparently was acquainted with every turning. 

“Isn’t that the place where the wedding festivities 
were going on?” he asked, pointing to a gloomy-looking 
corner house. 

“I don’t remember,” said Sadie. “These little streets 
all look exactly alike.” 

“That’s the house,” said Van Putten. “I took par- 
ticular notice of the cu-rious carving on the door.” 

“The musicians are supposed to play all night,” said 
Maxwell; “but, as you see, they are sensible men and 
have gone home to bed.” 

They passed through a narrow doorway and emerged 
on a piece of waste ground. 

“There’s the coffee-house. You mustn’t be disap- 
pointed if it isn’t equal to your best restaurants.” 

The coffee-house looked uninviting; Maxwell led the 
way up a steep ladder. 






TANGIER 


*'W 


- ■** ■ 

A STREET IN TANGIER 




A MOORISH COFFEE-HOUSE 







TANGIER 


187 


“I’ll open the door,” he called out, “and then you’ll 
be able to see your way up.” 

At the top Van Putten stumbled over a stack of 
yellow slippers, and turned to warn Sadie. 

“A . cu-rious custom,” he remarked. “It must 
be a case of ‘hunt the slipper’ when the guests 
depart.” 

“No one bothers,” said Maxwell. “Morocco slippers 
are usually made in one size, so it doesn’t matter if you 
get your own or another man’s.” 

They passed through a curtained archway into a 
large square room. On the floor were several gaily 
coloured rugs, and on the rugs squatted half a dozen 
men. They were playing cards. All were very much 
in earnest over their game and hardly raised their eyes 
when the strangers entered. 

“Do you recognise the wedding musicians?” 
whispered Maxwell. “That’s old Muley — the head of 
the band. He’s about to strike up.” The melancholy 
wailing of bagpipes was beginning. 

“How can they sit there so calmly with that noise 
going bn?” said Sadie. “I’m afraid I should revoke 
and give hearts on a spade declaration.” 

The air was warm and soft with a strong odour of 
mint and haschish. Sadie began to feel sleepy. They 
sat down at a small inlaid table, and Maxwell ordered 
Turkish coffee. The proprietor waited on them himself. 
He seemed very friendly with the young Englishman 
and chatted to him in Arabic. When he had gone off 
to fetch a couple of pipes, Maxwell turned to Sadie and 
recounted their conversation. 

“I was obliged to ask if he minded my bringing you, 
because, in the ordinary way, he won’t have strangers 
here.” 


188 A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 

“Why not? I should have thought it would be good 
for trade.” 

“Boabdil doesn’t find it profitable; you see, the 
strangers drive the regular customers away. Shahib is 
not allowed to come here; he has to conduct his parties 
elsewhere.” 

“Was Boabdil cross with you for bringing us?” 

“Cross! he was delighted. Shall I tell you what he 
said? In bald English, of course, it doesn’t sound so 
well. He said that you had converted a mud hut into 
a palace by the beauty and majesty of your presence.” 

“That man would do well in the States,” said Van 
Putten. “He’d make a pile as a writer of advertise- 
ments.” 

‘ I must tell him so,” replied Maxwell. “As a 
matter of fact, he’s doing very well in this business. I 
happen to know, because he banks with our firm.” 

Young Maxwell was a pleasant companion; he 
talked without restraint of the bank and his prospects. 
He admitted that at first he had disliked the life; now, 
he was very happy. Unlike his mother, he took a keen 
interest in the Oriental and had taught himself Arabic 
the better to understand him. 

At bottom, people are all very much alike,” he said, 
taking a pull at his long Moorish pipe. “I’ll just give 
>ou an instance. Did you happen to notice the 
Painted Rock when you landed this morning?” 

^ Yes, said Sadie, “some one pointed it out to me.” 

Ihe Painted Rock is very popular in these parts. 
Alien a Moorish girl wants a husband, she goes there 
and prays for one. Of course, Mahomet’s followers are 
allowed several wives, but in spite of that there seems 
to be a shortage. When you show English people the 
Painted Rock, they look upon it as a curiosity and think 


TANGIER 


189 


how differently everything is managed in England. 
But it isn’t really. Last summer I went home and 
stayed two months with an old aunt of mine. She had 
a treasure of a servant called Mary. During my visit 
Mary suddenly gave notice. I happened to go into the 
room at the psychological moment. Aunt was very 
cross. ‘I thought you were so happy here,’ she said. 

“‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Mary, ‘I’m very happy.’ 

“‘Then why do you want to leave?’ said my 
aunt. 

“‘Well,’ replied Mary, ‘it’s like this. The Daily Mail 
says there are fewer marriages in Berkshire than in any 
other county in England, so, if it’s all the same to you, 
ma’am, I’d like to try another district.’ The English 
Marys take another situation — the Tangier Marys 
make a pilgrimage to the Painted Rock. There’s not 
much difference really. I’ll give you another example. 
Insomnia is supposed to be a modern malady, and is 
associated in our minds with an advanced civilisation; 
but do you know that in Tangier we have a temple 
dedicated to sleep? The patient goes to the temple to 
pray and the suggestion is supposed to act on the 
nerves and cure him. That’s the whole secret of much- 
advertised patent medicines, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” said Van Putten. “A friend of mine has 
made a pile out of Poppyland Pills. He’s cornered 
sleep. A good many people can’t close their eyes 
without swallowing two Poppyland Pills.” 

Maxwell laughed. 

“In America they take Poppyland Pills — in Tangier 
they go to the temple. In each case it’s the same idea, 
isn’t it? I don’t think you’ll have to pray for sleep 
to-night,” he continued, turning to Sadie. “You look 
as if you find it hard to keep awake.” 


190 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“I’m not really so tired/’ said Sadie, “but this 
atmosphere stupefies me.” 

“I’ll avoid the small streets going back and take 
you along the cliff walk; it will be much fresher there.” 

Maxwell lighted the lantern and went down the 
ladder staircase; he turned round to give his hand to 
Sadie. 

“Well! how do you like, your experience of a Moorish 
coffee-house?” 

The sharp salt air revived Sadie; she drew it in with 
delight. 

“I’m glad to have seen one; but isn’t it just lovely 
to be outside again?” 


CHAPTER XIX 


GRANADA 

Masterton was not enjoying himself; he was obliged 
to admit that he missed Sadie terribly. During the 
few weeks he had known her, she had become necessary 
to him. It was odd, but he had never recognised the 
fact until they parted. He wanted her. He wanted 
to hear again the upward, characteristic swing of her 
voice. He wanted to hear her say that something or 
other put her in mind of a little incident. He wanted 
to listen and laugh at her extraordinary criticisms of 
the Old Masters. He wanted her badly. And as the 
days went by he found that he wanted her just as she 
was, and not a new and revised edition as he had once 
imagined. He recognised that he had been a fool. 
He had tried to love with his head, and in consequence 
had been laid up with concussion of the brain. He 
had no difficulty in justifying his own conduct. He had 
doubted the wisdom of marrying an American; he 
had been obliged to consider his mother; he found a 
dozen fresh reasons every day to satisfy his head. But 
his heart was more difficult to convince. He felt lonely 
and miserable. Granada depressed him. The atmo- 
sphere was not southern. The weather added to his 
melancholy. The wind whistled through the deserted 
halls of the Alhambra, and the sky was grey and 
gloomy. 


191 


192 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


One morning at breakfast Phibbs said to Masterton — 

“What do you say to going up to the Albaicin this 
afternoon?” 

“I don’t know. Is there anything worth seeing 
there?” 

“Yes, if you take any interest in gipsies.” 

“I’m afraid I don’t.” 

“My dear chap, what’s come to you?” 

This was diplomatic of Phibbs. He knew perfectly 
well what had befallen his friend, but was obliged to 
pretend ignorance until the other saw fit to enlighten 
him. 

“Come to me! What do you mean?” 

“Why, you seem off colour.” 

“It’s the weather.” 

“Yes, the weather’s beastly.” 

“Granada’s an overrated place.” 

“Yes, it’s rather a hole. Well, what do you say 
about this afternoon?” 

“We may as well go and see the gipsies as do any- 
thing else.” 

The two men set off directly after lunch. A fine, 
drizzling rain was falling, but Phibbs declared that it 
looked as if it would clear later. 

He did not find Masterton a cheerful companion. 
When two people are together all day long, it is some- 
times difficult to dig up conversation. As a pig scents 
out truffles, so a fresh person often serves to unearth 
buried treasure. The two smoked in silence, but the 
companionship was not perfect, because Phibbs was 
aware that his riend was feeling miserable. After an 
unusually long pause he said — 

“What do you say to leaving Granada to-morrow?” 

Masterton hesitated before replying. His one idea 






* 











































GRANADA 



IPSY CAVE DWELLINGS 




GRANADA 


193 


was to remain in Granada as long as possible. He had 
made inquiries at the various hotels, and had not found 
the Van Puttens’ name in the visitors’ list. He was 
practically certain that they had not yet arrived; 
therefore he intended to prolong his own visit as long 
as possible. But he did not want to explain this to 
Phibbs, so he said — 

“Of course, we’ve had the most wretched weather; 
we might as well stay a few days longer to see if it 
improves.” 

“Just as you like,” replied Phibbs. “I’m quite 
willing.” 

After that they trudged on in silence. They were 
climbing a steep hill; the road was heavy with the 
red mud peculiar to Granada. The colour attracted 
Masterton; it reminded him of Devon, his native county. 

Drip! Drop! The rain drizzled down persistently; 
the misty air blotted out the peaks of the distant 
mountains. Masterton tilted his umbrella viciously; a 
runnel of water began to trickle down his collar. 

“Ugh! what an afternoon! And this is Sunny 
Spain.” 

They walked another half-mile, and then Phibbs 
said — 

“I see the first of the cave dwellings. Other people 
are mad besides ourselves. Look!” 

Before the rock-hewn house of the chief of the 
gipsies a roomy, old-fashioned carriage was standing. 
The driver apparently was indifferent to the weather. 
The reins hung limply between his fingers; his hunched- 
up attitude showed that he was fast asleep. But if the 
driver was asleep, some one else was awake. A short, 
stout man stood on guard. His peaked cap and blue 
uniform proclaimed that he was a person in authority, 


194 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


and he carried that badge of Spanish officialdom — white 
gloves. 

“Some people come here in style/’ remarked Phibbs. 

“Yes. What an idiotic idea to bring a policeman 
up! This is evidently regarded as a most dangerous 
expedition.” 

“There’s not much fear of being molested by gipsies 
this afternoon,” said Phibbs. “All the sensible ones 
are keeping indoors.” 

“Here comes the rest of the escort,” said Masterton. 

Another Spaniard, also short and fat and in all 
respects a counterpart of the first, made his appearance. 

Phibbs burst out laughing. 

“We shall see a regiment of soldiers next.” He 
stopped laughing as suddenly as he had begun. “Why, 
there’s Leo. This must be the Van Puttens’ turnout 
then.” 

Leo came forward. He looked like a man who has 
just come safely through a great danger. 

“Ah!” he said, a smile breaking out all over his face, 
“ eet is you!” 

He was followed by Van Putten and his daughter. 
Sadie was not in the least embarrassed; Masterton was, 
and showed it. They stood under the shelter of drip- 
ping umbrellas and watched the escort strut solemnly 
to and fro. 

“ Aren’t they quaint?” said Van Putten. “I hope 
you and Mr. Masterton have not been lafhn’ at us. My 
daughter thought an escort unnecessary, but the 
concierge at the Washington Irving advised it. We 
didn’t reckon then on a wet afternoon. This rain has 
made the inhabitants scurry to their holes like rabbits.” 

Masterton listened. He was wondering how he could 
ever have thought the American voice harsh; it struck 


GRANADA 


195 


him now as delightfully musical. And to hear Van 
Putten say Taff ’ instead of ‘laugh’ was most refreshing. 

“Isn’t it a dreadful afternoon?” said Sadie to Phibbs. 
“ This rain has just taken all the starch out of my ‘ waist.’ ” 

Master ton was hoping that she would address a 
remark to him; but she did not. As she got into the 
carriage, he said, with as careless a tone as he could 
assume — 

“Shall we be seeing you again?” 

“I really don’t know,” she replied. “Our plans are 
very uncertain.” 

Van Putten got in; then Leo. Masterton stood and 
watched the cumbersome vehicle roll slowly down the 
hill. He was thinking over Sadie’s quaint remark. 
She had said that the rain had taken all the starch out 
of her ‘waist.’ He felt as if all the starch had been 
taken out of his waist too. The Americanism hit off 
his feeling of unutterable limpness. 

The next morning May Viner was sitting outside the 
Hotel Siete Suelos when she saw Sadie go by. She 
jumped up. 

“When did you come, Miss Van Putten, and where 
are you staying?” 

“We came the day before yesterday, and we’re staying 
just opposite.” 

“At the Washington Irving? I’m so glad; we shall 
be able to see something of you.” 

Sadie, with characteristic frankness, said — 

“I don’t fancy we shall be there very long.” She was 
sorry to have come across the two Miss Hetheringtons 
in Granada — they disturbed her peace of mind. They 
were associated with Seville; she was anxious to forget 
Seville. 

“We’ve been here a week,” said May, “and it’s rained 


196 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


every day. Granada is dismal in wet weather. Have 
you been to the Alhambra yet?” 

“No; it’s been too chilly for marble halls.” 

“Mr. Masterton is staying at a little hotel down in 
the town, ’ said May, reopening the conversation after 
a slight pause. 

“Yes; father and I met him yesterday in the 
Albaicin.” 

May did not like to ask if Phibbs had been there; 
but she wanted to know badly. 

“Mr. Phibbs was with him,” added Sadie. As she 
made this very ordinary statement, she noticed the 
colour fly to May’s cheeks and summed up the situation 
in her quick, decisive fashion. 

“Well, good-bye,” she said; “I’m on my way to the 
church of San Jeronimo.” 

“Miss Van Putten,” said May timidly, “would you 
mind my coming with you?” 

“Why, no. I shall be delighted, if you’ve nothing 
better to do.” 

The two girls walked along the avenue of elms. The 
sky was still overcast, but a glimmering sunlight 
showed through the thick foliage; the air was fresh and 
fragrant after the heavy rains. 

“What is there to see in San Jeronimo?” asked May, 
as they left the shady avenue and turned into the ugly 
main street. 

“Not a great deal. I want to go because my 
favourite hero, Gonzalo di Cordova, is buried there.” 

“You’re a great hero-worshipper, aren’t you, Miss Van 
Putten?” 

“What makes you say that?” 

“Only something Mr. Masterton said one day.” 

Sadie longed to know what Masterton had said, but 


GRANADA 


197 


she was too proud to ask, so she changed the conversa- 
tion abruptly. 

They had some difficulty in finding the church of San 
Jeronimo. The door was locked, and they were directed 
to the house of the custodian. A little old man came 
hobbling to the door and looked at them suspiciously. 
When he caught the words El Gran Capitan, he nodded 
his head and limped away to fetch the key. The church 
looked melancholy; no service had been held there for 
years. Sadie stood in silence before Gonzalo’s neglected 
tomb. For the moment she forgot the black, dusty 
church; she was standing in the Armoury at Madrid 
with Masterton. The great Captain’s brave words 
came to her in the gloomy stillness: ‘I would rather 
take two steps forward into my grave than one back- 
wards to win a hundred years of life.’ Gonzalo was 
right. Not only was he a great soldier, but a sound 
philosopher. There is nothing so deadly as walking 
through life crab fashion. Sadie pulled herself together 
with an effort and with a fixed determination to think 
of Masterton no more. 

“What a dismal place!” said May, as they came out. 

Sadie smiled. “You’ll think I haven’t arranged a 
very cheerful programme. I thought of visiting the 
bull-ring next. Leo went yesterday and said I was 
coming, so the man in charge will be expecting us.” 

A woman came out and asked the two girls to wait 
a moment. Then she went back to the kitchen, and 
returned, followed by a lad of about sixteen. Sadie did 
not understand what she said, but she distinguished the 
word ‘puchero ’ once or twice. Judging from the savoury 
whiffs coming from the kitchen, the woman was busy 
preparing the midday meal. The youth finished rolling 
a cigarette, and led the way into the ring. The amphi- 


198 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


theatre looked bare, with its stone seats rising tier above 
tier. When those seats were crowded, and the band 
played, and the gaily dressed picadors strutted to and 
fro, and an electric current of excitement ran from the 
arena to the boxes, one might forget for a moment the 
barbaric cruelty of it all. Not so now. 

The youth took the cigarette from his mouth and 
pointed out the Royal box and the door through which 
the bull made a dash into the ring. The ladies must 
be sure and come the next day. They would enjoy 
the entertainment immensely. If they would follow 
him he would now show them something most interest- 
ing. He marched them along a draughty corridor, and 
up a creaking wooden staircase, and on to a rickety 
platform. In the pit beneath six magnificent bulls were 
penned. Driven from the wide, green meadows the day 
before, the strange surroundings had momentarily tamed 
their inherent savagery. They looked almost docile. 
On the morrow they would ramp round the arena and 
fight for life, and be bullied and overcome and dragged 
ignominiously over the sanded floor. To-day they were 
left in peace. With a gesture and epithet of contempt 
the youth turned away, and Sadie and May followed. 
Outside a door on the right he paused. 

“What are we going to see now?” whispered May, 
full of anticipation. 

The lad turned the handle, the door flew open, and 
they entered. In the improvised stable ten horses, 
in various stages of wretchedness, huddled together. 
Some were old and blind; all were lean and scarred. 

“What miserable creatures!” exclaimed May; “they 
look as if they ought to be killed.” 

“They haven’t long to wait,” said Sadie quietly; “ they 
will be killed to-morrow.” 


GRANADA 


199 


‘‘To-morrow! You mean — oh, how ghastly !” 

Sadie went up to a lame blue roan and began to pat 
him. Unused to any endearment, he was shy at first; 
but after awhile her coaxing gave him confidence, and 
he rubbed his head against her shoulder. He had had 
such a hard life, poor old fellow, and such a hard death 
awaited him on the morrow. Suddenly a tear splashed 
on to his nose, and he looked up inquiringly. May was 
equally surprised. 

“You’ve been to a bull-fight, haven’t you?” she said. 

“Yes,” answered Sadie; “somehow it didn’t seem so 
cruel that day as it does now.” 

The Fates were determined to be unkind to Sadie 
that morning. As they had decided she should meet 
Masterton, why did they not arrange for the meeting 
to take place in the church of San Jeronimo? Gonzalo 
had pleasant memories for both. Why did the destinies 
arrange for her to encounter Masterton just outside the 
bull-ring? He stiffened instantly; a train of unpleasant 
thought was immediately set in action. The annoyance 
he had felt that sunny afternoon in Seville overwhelmed 
him again. The annoyance showed itself plainly, and 
was resented by Sadie. 

“There’s nothing specially attractive about an empty 
bull-ring,” he observed, when he heard where they had 
been. 

“But we saw the bulls and the horses,” said May. 

Masterton turned to Sadie. “Are you thinking of 
going to the show to-morrow?” 

“I don’t think so. Father hasn’t said anything about 
it.” 

“He told me he took you to a bull-fight in Madrid; 
did you enjoy yourself?” 

If Sadie had spoken the truth she would have said 


200 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


how she loathed the Spanish national sport. But 
Masterton’s manner irritated her. By what right was 
he sitting in judgment. 

“I can’t say I exactly enjoyed it,” she said. “Of 
course, it was a fine spectacle.” 

“There were not many Spanish ladies present the 
day I went. I suppose Engl'sh and American women 
find the entertainment more attractive.” 

“There’s always a charm in novelty,” said Sadie. 

She knew she was rubbing him up the wrong way, but 
something made her do it. 

“I should never allow any one belonging to me to go,” 
said Masterton, with an air of finality. 

The remark roused Sadie. “You ought to live in the 
States!” she said; “you’d never speak like that again!” 

At that moment she could not help thinking of Ali 
Ehassan and his little girl. It seemed to her that the 
Englishman regarded his womankind in precisely the 
same way as the Oriental. She was his chattel; he was 
to do with her as he thought best. It was odd, but 
Sadie had spent some weeks in Masterton’s society 
before finding this out. 







GRANADA 



THE GATE OK JUSTICE 


CHAPTER XX 


ANCIENT ROMANCE AND MODERN ROMANCE 

On a crumbling stone ledge in the Park of the 
Alhambra May Viner was sitting. Before her rose 
the Gate of Justice with the mysterious imprint of the 
Hand and Key. She was not lost in vain speculation 
as to the probable meaning of the Hand and Key. 
Why trouble about Ancient Romance when Modern 
Romance was drawing near? She was expecting to 
meet Phibbs at six o’clock; it must be nearly that now. 
May glanced at the tiny gun-metal watch at her wrist, 
which had been her mother’s parting gift, and made a 
rapid calculation. The watch lost about three minutes 
a day. She had set it on Monday; it was now Thurs- 
day. The hand pointed to a quarter before six; she 
had, therefore, five clear minutes for meditation. A 
variety of thought can be crammed into five minutes. 
In five minutes one can annihilate space and time. 
May did not waste the precious moments. First of 
all, she flew to the shabby little home in Bayswater 
and told her mother and Letty the great news. How 
surprised they were! and how she enjoyed their sur- 
prise! The three women had always been without a 
man’s protection; May’s father had died before she 
was born. A girl has to be fatherless and brotherless to 
realise what that means. May had realised to the full 
the lack of the masculine element. They had been poor, 
201 


202 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


but poverty would not have pressed so hardly if there 
had been a man in the house. No one wanted three 
women. They were in the way; they were sufficient to 
swamp any social gathering. On the rare occasions 
when she and her mother and Letty had treated them- 
selves to the pit of a theatre, how she had envied the 
fortunate girls with a male escort. In May’s childish 
mind a man acted as buffer between the woman and 
the outside world. He was a wonderful being who 
•could master the intricacies of Bradshaw and always 
knew where to find places on the map. If anything 
went wrong with locks or bolts he always seemed to 
know by some extraordinary instinct what to do. And 
then again a man understood money matters and in- 
vestment. Money had never been plentiful in the Viner 
household, but the little capital had diminished steadily 
owing to Mrs. Viner ’s fatal knack of choosing stocks that 
went down never to rise again. The five minutes had 
nearly gone. Perhaps Phibbs, who was hastening his 
steps, would not have been flattered if he could have 
read May’s thoughts. But, analyse the thoughts of 
ninety-nine girls out of a hundred in similar circum- 
stances, and what do you find? The hundredth proves 
the exception. May was no exception, but a very 
ordinary girl. 

The evening was delicious. She sat contentedly on 
the rocky ledge, her feet dangling, her subconscious 
mind vaguely appreciating the majestic outlines of the 
grand old palace. She looked at her watch again. 
The hand pointed to twenty minutes past six; Phibbs, 
therefore, was eleven minutes late. At that moment he 
appeared. 

“ Don’t say anything. I know I’m late, but I met 
Miss Van Putten and I stopped to tell her the news.” 


ANCIENT AND MODERN ROMANCE 203 


“Was she surprised ?” 

“Not particularly. She seemed very pleased.” 

“Did you tell her not to mention it to Miss 
Hetherington? ” 

“Yes; I said we wanted the affair kept quiet for the 
present.” 

“I wrote to mother this morning. The post is so 
slow; she cant hear for four days. And I enclosed a 
note to Letty saying what a delightful brother you 
would be.” 

“You think she’ll be pleased?” 

“I’m sure she will.” 

“She won’t be jealous?” 

“Jealous! oh no!” replied May, with conviction. 
She could not conceive a man coming between Letty 
and herself. Sisterly love she understood. Letty was 
as necessary to her existence as her hand or her foot. 
The new relation was something of a luxury. 

They walked up and down outside the unfinished 
palace of Charles the Fifth, busy with their plans. Her 
lover was a successful solicitor with a large practice. 
The old grinding days of poverty were nearly over. 
As Phibbs sketched their future she saw herself in a 
becoming frock, welcoming her mother and sister to a 
well-furnished house. What delightful times she and 
Letty would have together! Perhaps she might be able 
to afford dress-circle seats instead of the pit. Dress- 
circle seats had always been the summit of May’s 
ambition. 

“We shall travel, of course,” said Phibbs. “Has 
your sister seen anything of the world?” 

“She’s never been out of England.” 

“Is that so? We must see if we can’t manage a trip 
to Switzerland.” 


204 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


When May heard this a little thrill ran through her. 
She mistook the thrill for love, as many girls have done 
before. 

“ Doesn’t the Tower of the Infantas look pretty this 
evening?” she said, as they stood beneath the narrow 
Moorish windows, with the sun setting aslant on the bars. 
“That was where the three beautiful princesses used 
to stand and watch for their Christian lovers. Didn’t 
they have wonderful romances in the olden times?” 

May was young enough to think that Romance 
means a plumed hat and a glittering sword. And yet, 
had she but known it, the man walking beside her was 
a romantic figure too. His pity had been excited by 
the little travelling companion; later his chivalry had 
been aroused. She was imprisoned by poverty and he 
had determined to rescue her. 

Suddenly she looked at the gun-metal toy at her 
wrist and exclaimed — 

“I must fly — Miss Hetherington will be so cross if 
I’m late. My watch loses five minutes a day, so it must 
be just on seven.” 

“I must get you a watch that will keep better time. 
What kind do you like? ” 

“I love those in blue enamel ” 

“Set with seed pearls — I know the sort.” 

May blushed. She felt guilty — almost as if she had 
been belittling a farewell gift. True, the watch was a 
cheap one, but the price paid had been sufficiently 
heavy. Her mother had been obliged to deny herself 
a new winter jacket. 


CHAPTER XXI 


A VISIT TO THE ALHAMBRA 

Breakfast was nearly over at the Hotel Washington 
Irving; there were great gaps in the long table. The 
Alhambra enthusiasts, who had arrived overnight, after 
swallowing a hasty breakfast had departed for their 
Mecca. In a couple of hours they would return, 
swallow an equally hasty lunch, and catch the afternoon 
train to Gibraltar. 

“Don’t these people make you feel ashamed of 
yourself?” said Sadie to her father. “D’ye know we’ve 
been in Granada more than a week and we’ve not been 
to the Alhambra.” 

“Wal,” said Van Putten, “I’m agreeable to go there 
this morning, if you are. Up to now the weather has 
not been exactly suitable for marble halls.” 

Outside the hotel they were stopped by a big, stout 
man. 

“You want a guide for the Alhambra? I am a 
beautiful guide. Laty and chentleman — take me.” 

‘ ‘What do you think, Sadie?” asked Van Putten. 
“Shall we fix it up?” 

A merry countenance always appealed to the 
American. “Laff and the world laffs with you,” he 
was fond of quoting. 

The guide, who informed them his name was Carlo, 
led the way along the soddened, gravelled walk. It had 
205 


206 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


stopped raining, but the bright drops still hung from 
the elm boughs. The sun, which for days past had 
peeped shyly from a dun sky, now showed itself boldly. 
The sunshine was reflected in the pleased whirr of 
countless insects, in the singing of hundreds of birds, 
in Carlo’s mellow smile as he tripped along humming 
gaily a Neapolitan ballad. 

“He’s mighty pleased with himself,” said Van Putten 
to his daughter. “I only hope we shall be equally 
pleased with him .” 

Carlo’s enthusiasm outstripped his knowledge. What 
he said did not always coincide with Professor de 
Castro, but Sadie forgave him. He was so full of pride 
in the Alhambra; he had such a personal feeling for 
every dead-and-gone Habuz and Yusuf. 

He stood in the Court of Lions and, flourishing his 
cane in the direction of the fountain, said — 

“Geepsy lions; Moorish basin; Catolique Keengs 
top.” 

“I can’t follow him,” said Van Putten. “What does 
he mean to convey to us, Sadie?” 

“He wants to tell us that the lions are Egyptian, the 
basin Moorish, and that the Catholic Kings, Ferdinand 
and Isabella added the ornamentation on top.” 

“A very draffty place,” said Van Putten, as he 
followed Carlo from one marble hall to another. 

The practical American could not help speculating 
as to how the ancient Moors kept themselves warm. 
Evidently they had built under the impression that it 
was perpetual summer. Perhaps the climate had 
changed with the years. Van Putten thought of the 
winds that had swept Granada the last few days. He 
looked at the fountains, and baths, and polished green 
marble floors, and shivered. 


GRANADA 



CARLO 



ENTRANCE TO THE ALHAMBRA 




A VISIT TO THE ALHAMBRA 


207 


“I can’t understand how those old Moors got along 
without central heating,” he observed. 

When Carlo reached the Hall of the Abencerrage, he 
paused dramatically. Then he began — 

“Boabdil ’e ’ave a beautiful Sooltana, an’ she go to 
meet ’er lover ’Amet under the cypress tree — she go 
to meet ’im in the beautiful garden of the Generalife. 
An’ Boabdil ’e come to ’ear of it, an’ what did ’e do? 
’E take thirty-six of the tribe — thirty-six — an’ ’e be-’ead 
them ’ere.” He hushed his voice. “An’ their blood 
ran over the basin and treekled down on the floor of 
marble. Look, laty an’ chentleman, lookl There you 
will see the marks of the blood of the Abencerrage.” 

Van Putten studied thoughtfully the dark stain. An 
incredulous smile, characteristically Yankee, played 
round his mouth, but he said nothing. 

Carlo piloted them through the spacious marble 
courts, and pointed with his cane to the azulejos tiling 
and the stonework so fine and delicate that it resembled 
dropping icicles. 

At last, when Van Putten was beginning to weary 
of the over-elaboration, and to wish for a wall that 
was not chiselled, or scrolled, or otherwise embellished, 
Carlo pushed open a door disclosing a fine apartment 
with a heavy Renaissance ceiling. 

“Now Charlie the Fifth ’e take away the Moorish 
see.” 

“Wise man!” said Van Putten. “I should have 
done the same myself. I don’t Say but what the other 
rooms are vurry handsome, but you can’t call them 
exactly comfortable.” f 

“Charlie the Fifth ’e take away the Moorish when e 
bring ’ome ’is wife, Isabella of Portugal. Later on she 
die an’ Charlie the Fifth ’e went monk.” 


208 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


‘“He was very devoted to his wife,” explained Sadie 
to her father. “When he abdicated and entered a 
monastery he left almost everything behind; but he 
took her portrait. When he was dying he used to lie 
in his little room and just gaze at her picture.” 

“What a lot you know!” said Van Putten admiringly. 
“I can’t think how you remember it all.” 

“I went to Professor de Castro’s lectures last Fall,” 
said Sadie, “and he’s a great authority on Spain.” 

They followed Carlo out of the spacious apartment; he 
led the way along a rocky platform, and pointed through 
the iron railing to a small window which was barred. 

“Charlie the Fifth ’e kept ’is mother in prison there — 
they call ’er Joanna the Fool.” 

Once again Sadie was back in the Lecture Hall 
in New York. She saw the Professor as Joanna’s 
champion. She heard his diatribe on the American 
woman: 'You have millions of theories, but no ideal; 
Joanna had an ideal.’ Sadie looked at the prison 
where the unhappy Queen had fretted away the hours. 
Scorned by her husband, spurned by her son, did not 
her life serve to show that a woman ought to go her 
own way independent of either? And yet the Professor 
had not hesitated to say that he considered Joanna 
fulfilled her mission in the world better than the modern 
woman. And Masterton. She could not help thinking 
of Masterton. She knew so well what the Englishman 
thought. Were they all wrong? Was the modern 
American right? She wondered. 

When Van Putten stood on the historic square 
where, long ago, Columbus knelt before Ferdinand and 
Isabella and received permission and money to set off 
and discover the New World, his satisfaction was 
unbounded. 


G11ANADA 



THE COURT OF LIONS 



IN THE HALL OF THE ABENCERRAGE 






A VISIT TO THE ALHAMBRA 


209 


“ Columbus would be rather surprised if he could see 
the States to-day,” he said. “He planted a little seed; 
I reckon he had no idea that that little seed would grow 
into such a mighty tree.” 

Outside the Alhambra they met Phibbs; he had 
been lingering in the neighbourhood of the Hotel Siete 
Suelos, hoping to see May. But the Miss Hether- 
ingtons had been more exacting then usual, and he 
had been disappointed. He dragged Masterton’s name 
into the conversation several times, and was not put 
off by Sadie’s apparent lack of interest. He had talked 
over the subject with May, and she agreed with him 
that the two were standing on the edge of matrimony. 
They only wanted a gentle push to tumble over; but 
who was to give the gentle push? Phibbs seriously 
considered the question as he walked beside Sadie. 

“Are you doing anything particular this afternoon?” 
he asked. 

“I thought of going to the Generalife; we’re leaving 
Granada to-morrow.” 

“You don’t object to going without me, do you, 
Sadie?” said Van Putten. “One palace is about as 
much as I can tackle in a day. The Alhambra is vurry 
fine, but to my mind there’s a kind of sameness in 
Moorish decoration.” 

Phibbs listened, making mental notes. Sadie intended 
visiting the Generalife alone. Nothing could be better. 
If only he could persuade his friend to go there, what 
might not be the result of a chance meeting! He 
smiled to himself as he made his plans; since his 
engagement to May he had suddenly developed match- 
making tendencies. Sadie’s voice broke in on his 
thoughts. They were passing an old curiosity shop, 
and a massive silver jug and basin had caught her eye. 


210 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Wait a moment,” she said; “I want to go in and 
ask the price.” 

Just then the proprietress appeared. For days past 
she had been watching her opportunity. She had 
noticed how father and daughter hovered about her 
window, in the irresolute fashion peculiar to people on a 
holiday. In Sadie she recognised an easy victim; and 
she thought that with care she might manage Van 
Putten. But when she looked at Phibbs, she knew she 
must sharpen every weapon in her armoury. 

“We do not want to buy anything,” explained Sadie. 

“Senorita, I understand. I do not want you to buy 
— I desire only to show you my curios.” 

The interior of the old curiosity shop was a patch- 
work of the ages. In one corner stood a fifteenth- 
century altar-piece — in another a doubtful Holbein. 
There were Iron Maidens of Nuremberg, and Baxter 
prints, and ivories, and snuff-boxes from Versailles. 
The Senora indicated with a plump brown hand a 
dessert service, which she assured them had once 
belonged to Marie Antoinette. 

“This is Sevres too, isn’t it?” said Sadie, taking up a 
porcelain plate, with a garland of pink roses, and a lute 
and harp painted with delicate fidelity. 

“No, Senorita; that is Nyon.” 

Sadie put down the plate with a touch of disappoint- 
ment. She had been so sure it was Sevres. 

“At the time of the Revolution, Senorita, there was 
no longer work for the people at Sevres. So they 
departed to Switzerland, and they settled at a little 
place called Nyon, and there they began to make the 
Sevres.” 

4 ‘Then it is Sevres after all,” said Sadie, glad to find 
she had not been wholly wrong. 


A VISIT TO THE ALHAMBRA 


211 


“That piece is more rare, Senorita. For in three 
years the manufacture of Sevres was finished. 

“They must have worked overtime those three years,” 
said Phibbs, “judging by the number of specimens they 
turned out.” 

“Of course,” said Sadie, “a plate like that becomes 
more rare every year.” 

“On the contrary,” said Phibbs, “those plates 
multiply, because you must remember that every year 
more Americans visit Europe.” 

“We came in to ask the price of the silver pitcher and 
basin,” said Van Putten. 

“Because it is the end of the season I will give it 
away — I will charge only three hundred dollars.” 

“Three hundred dollars is a lot of money,” said Van 
Putten; “you see, we should have a heavy duty to pay 
besides. We’re only allowed to take in two hundred 
dollars’ worth free, and we’ve purchased considerably 
more than that already.” 

“Senor, you would not see such a jug and basin in 
the whole of Spain. It is unique. You have the 
weight there of three hundred dollars.” 

“Solid! uncommonly solid!” said Van Putten, 
balancing the jug in one hand and the basin in the 
other. “What do you think, Sadie? How would it be 
to use the basin for salad and the pitcher for ice-water? ” 

While her father was busy counting out the bills, 
Sadie discovered, standing in the corner, a most 
wonderful cabinet. Thereupon the Senora, who was 
watching her, hastily gathered up the notes and was at 
her side in an instant. 

“The Senorita has the eye of one who knows,” she 
said admiringly; “you will never see an armoire like 
that again.” 


212 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


The cabinet stood seven feet high. It was made of 
ebony, overlaid with tortoise-shell and inlaid with ivory. 
In the middle was a little cupboard. With pride the 
Senora threw open the doors, and revealed a miniature 
tiled hall, marble columned and hung with mirrors. 

“Vurry cute!” said Van Putten. 

“That armoire,” said the Senora, “once belonged to 
Ferdinand and Isabella. Look! On the top you will 
see carved the F and the Y, and the date, 1494 — two 
years after the Conquest of Granada.” 

“Isn’t that interesting?” said Sadie. 

“Very,” replied Phibbs. “They do this work in 
Wardour Street and I don’t deny that it’s clever.” 

“That armoire was at one time in the Alhambra,” 
continued the Senora. “It belonged to Isabella the 
Catholic.” 

Almost reverently Sadie opened one of the drawers. 

“Perhaps,” she said, “in this very drawer Isabella 
kept those stiff brocaded bodices she was so fond of 
wearing.” 

“The Senorita will take the armoire? I will name 
a low price because it belongs to a noble Spanish family, 
very poor and therefore anxious to sell. You shall 
have it for six hundred dollars.” 

“If it’s genuine, it’s very cheap,” said Sadie. 

“If it’s genuine,” interrupted Phibbs. “Is it likely to 
be genuine?” 

“But it has the F and the Y and the crown.” 

“All those marks can be manufactured. Do you 
know that, every few weeks, old furniture is buried in 
the Seine and periodically fished up to satisfy the 
modern craze for antiques?” 

The Senora looked hard at Phibbs. She had dis- 
approved of his attitude from the first. 


A VISIT TO THE ALHAMBRA 


213 


“The Senor is right,” she said. “Such things are 
done in France, but not in Spain. Look again at the 
work on the armoire, Senorita; you have the whole 
history of the Conquest of Granada. See, there is 
Boabdil El Chico holding his last council in the 
Alhambra. There also is Boabdil, with a few Moors, 
riding out to meet Ferdinand and Isabella — there the 
poor Boabdil gives up the keys.” 

“You say the cabinet belongs to a noble family?” 
said Sadie. 

“Yes, Senorita; a truly noble Spanish family.” 

“But, if it’s so valuable, I can’t understand their 
selling it.” 

“They are so poor, Senorita.” 

“I should have thought that some one would buy it, 
to present to a museum.” 

“But all Spain is poor, Senorita.” 

“Father,” said Sadie suddenly, “I’d just ‘love to 
have that cabinet.” 

“It’s risky, Sadie; you know what Mr. Phibbs has to 
say about old furniture.” 

Van Putten walked towards the door, followed by 
Sadie; they were pursued by the Senora. 

“Will the Senor come again here and talk with the 
Pries tie?” 

“The Priestie!” echoed Van Putten, in surprise. 

“Yes, the Priestie from the Cathedral. He will 
speak for me. He will tell you that the armoire is 
very old, and that until three days ago it stood in the 
Chapter House of the Cathedral.” 

“But you said it was formerly in the Alhambra, 
said Phibbs. 

“That was long ago. For many years it has been 
in the Chapter House of the Cathedral. Send for 


214 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


the Priestie,” screamed the Senora — “send for the 
Priestie!” 

Van Putten was impressed at last. He came back 
and stood in front of the cabinet. “I’ll purchase it,” he 
said. “You’ll be able to keep your ‘waists’ in that 
deep drawer, Sadie.” 

“With the armoire and the silver jug and basin, the 
Senorita will have a dressing-room worthy of a queen,” 
said the Senora, as she bowed them to the door. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE 

Sadie was walking in the beautiful garden of the 
Generalife. She was alone. But in spite of the break 
with Masterton she did not give one the impression that 
she was suffering from what is generally termed a 
disappointment. She was not very old, but she was old 
enough to have come to the conclusion that it is wiser to 
be in love with life than to be in love with an individual. 
And because she had come to this conclusion she was 
able to enjoy the sunny afternoon. She loved colour, 
and here was colour in abundance, the pink chestnut 
contrasting with the sombre cypress, the vivid purple 
judas tree with the neutral olive. Although she was 
able to take pleasure in her surroundings, she could not 
help thinking of Masterton once or twice. It was odd 
the way their friendship (Sadie would not call it by any 
other name) had flourished and withered. She had an 
idea that he did not approve of her nationality, but, a,s 
she had not become suddenly nationalised during their 
acquaintance, that could not be the real reason. Some- 
thing about her had evidently jarred on his fastidious 
taste; she wondered what it was. And then she began 
to ask herself if she would have liked England as a 
permanent home, and she had no hesitation in answering 
the question in the affirmative. To step from America 
into England would be like moving from a cheap jerry- 
215 


216 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


built house into a dignified old castle. She was deadly 
tired of hearing her friends hold forth on environment; 
she had attended numerous social afternoons on the 
subject. But the Yankee is given to preaching rather 
than practising. She recalled a lecture she had once 
listened to on Power through Repose. The hustling 
that had ensued at its close still lived in her memory. 
She smiled at the recollection. A sense of humour is 
America’s most valuable national asset. The English 
did not talk so much about environment, but it was there 
all the same — in the deadly dulness of the Cathedral 
town, in the old grey quadrangles of the colleges of 
Oxford and Cambridge, in the Poets’ Corner in West- 
minster Abbey. In England, Sadie always felt as if she 
had reached home after a long journey. Perhaps the 
reason she had first felt drawn towards Masterton was 
that there was something essentially English about 
him — - he was the typical young man invariably held up 
to ridicule in a Broadway farce. Back again she came 
to her first thought. Why had Masterton sought her at 
first and ignored her afterwards? What had she done 
to obliterate a favourable first impression? By this 
time Sadie had reached the Court of the Aqueduct. 
In the month of May it might well be called the Court 
of Roses. Roses grew on every wall. They hung from 
the pots bordering the tank; they dipped down almost 
touching the water. Roses in every shade, from 
palest cream to deepest red — roses everywhere. Sadie 
lingered. Stories of dead-and-gone sultanas rushed into 
her brain. What glorious hours they must have lived in 
this lovely old garden! How the wife of Boabdil and 
her lover, Hamet, must have revelled in the golden sun- 
shine! Sadie decided that she must try and find the 
famous trysting-tree, so she turned and left the Court of 


THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE 217 


Roses. Very soon she came across the cypress. There 
it was, just in front of her, bearing proudly the weight of 
six hundred years ! She stopped short. In the shadow of 
the branches a figure was standing. She recognised the 
light suit and panama hat. It was Masterton. He looked 
up, saw who it was, and came towards her. Having 
no subtlety in his composition, he did not attempt to 
assume surprise; as a matter of fact, he had been on 
the look out for more than an hour. But Sadie did 
not know this; she imagined he must be feeling as 
embarrassed as she was herself, and she began talking 
quickly, thinking that would make things easier for 
both. While she rattled on in characteristic fashion, 
Masterton reviewed the situation. At last he realised 
that it was no use theorising any longer. In a few days 
Sadie would sail for America. He must act, and act 
promptly. But what should he say? Should he ignore 
the break of their friendship at Seville, or should he 
boldly allude to it? He had never asked any one to 
marry him before; he was uncertain how to begin. 
Suddenly he had an inspiration. They were standing 
under the cypress. Of course ! Why had he not thought 
of it before? A little manoeuvring and he could veer the 
conversation in the direction of the tree. Sadie paused 
to take breath; Masterton seized his opportunity. 

“Isn’t this a fine old cypress?” he said. 

“Vurry fine,” said Sadie. 

From the way she said it Masterton might have known 
she was agitated. 

Her voice always betrayed her nationality; but she 
had been carefully trained in elocution, and usually she 
pronounced “very” as correctly as a Londoner. This 
unlooked-for meeting made her slip back into an 
Americanism. 


£18 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“If this old tree could speak,” went on Masterton, “I 
expect it would have a great deal to say.” 

Perhaps it was a pity the tree was not able to speak, 
and aid the limping conversation of the two young 
people standing there. Neither knew what to say next, 
but Masterton was determined to make good use of the 
cypress. 

“Doesn’t it seem strange to think that, hundreds of 
years ago, Hamet used to make love to his sweetheart 
under this very tree?” 

Sadie saw her opportunity and seized it. 

“That reminds me of a very entertaining guide we 
had at the Alhambra this morning.” And she began 
to mimic Carlo’s account of the murder of the Aben- 
ceriage. She felt herself again. For a short time she 
had been stupid and uncomfortable, but Masterton’s 
happy allusion to the cypress had set her active mind 
in motion again. When she had finished laughing at 
Carlo, she held out her hand. “Good-bye,” she said; 
“ I must hurry back. I’ve all my packing to do.” 

The word “packing” determined Masterton. Sadie 
was really going away; he must stop her. 

“Have you seen the Italian villa at the farther end of 
the garden?” he asked. 

“Why, no! Is it worth seeing?” 

“You mustn’t miss it on any account.” 

“I don’t know whether I ought to stay; it looks like 
rain.” 

Masterton eyed the threatening clouds and secretly 
rejoiced. If the storm came, and he and Sadie were held 
up, surely it would be possible to come to an under- 
standing. 

“It won’t rain for the next half-hour,” he said. 

They walked along the terrace until they came to a 


THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE 219 

long flight of Moorish steps, and there Masterton 
paused, because he wanted to see how the cascade of 
water came down. 

“At my home in Devon,” he said, “we have an 
Italian garden very similar to this. If I could arrange 
for the water to run over the steps in this fashion, it 
would be an immense improvement. I wish you could 
see my home. D’ye think there is any chance of your 
coming to England?” 

“Not the smallest,” replied Sadie. “We intend 
sailing from Gibraltar.” 

Masterton’s second attempt to give the conversation 
a turn in the right direction had failed. He felt 
discouraged. But at that moment the weather came 
to his aid. Great drops of rain began to fall heavily, 
and the low roll of thunder could be heard in the 
distance. 

“We must run to the Mirador,” he said, “and wait 
until the storm is over.” 

They ran to the Mirador and arrived breathless. 
Sadie kept wishing that the rain would stop, but 
Masterton was secretly hoping it would continue to 
pour until he had asked Sadie to marry him. Both 
were strangely silent. It was odd that two people who 
had always had so much to say to each other should 
become suddenly dumb. At last Masterton, groping for 
a topic, was obliged to fall back on the scenery. 

“Isn’t it a magnificent view?” he said. “One can see 
such a distance.” 

Just beneath them lay the pretty toy garden, which 
lost much of its charm now that the sun no longer 
lighted the miniature grottoes. Beyond, the deep gorge 
of the Darro separated the Albaicin from the Alhambra. 
The old palace stood out; the jagged black clouds 


220 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


served to throw the outline into bolder relief. Sunshine 
might be essential to the doll-like prettiness of an Italian 
villa, but the ancient fortress rose up proudly, glorying 
in the fury of the storm. Far away a narrow white 
thread traced the line of the Sierra Nevadas. The 
eternal snows were living again in every runnel and 
channel and roaring mountain torrent. 

After they had discussed the view, there was nothing 
to be done but to wait for the rain to stop. Masterton 
knew the moments were slipping by, but he felt 
powerless. 

“It’s getting lighter,” said Sadie. “I can see a bit of 
blue sky.” 

Before Masterton knew what he was doing, he had 
taken a dive into deep water. He clutched hold of 
Sadie’s hand to steady himself, and the touch of her 
made him flounder more than ever. 

“ Sadie — I’ve been an awful fool — will you marry me?” 

It was a queer, unromantic proposal in such very 
romantic surroundings, but anything intensely real always 
seems perfectly natural. If Masterton did not make 
love with the warmth and imagery of a Hamet, at any 
rate he satisfied Sadie. 

They walked slowly back through the beautiful park. 
The rain had ceased and a gorgeous rainbow stretched 
right across the sky. In the elm boughs the nightingales 
were singing. The ground was marshy after the down- 
pour, and Masterton again drew Sadie’s attention to the 
curious* colour of the mud. 

“It reminds me so much of my home — our home,” 
he said. 

He left her at the entrance of the Washington Irving 
Hotel, lingering a few moments after he had said good- 
bye as if he did not want to leave her. 


THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE 221 


“I hope your father won't object to the change of 
arrangements. You intended leaving to-morrow, didn’t 
you?" 

“Yes," said Sadie. 

“And when did you intend sailing?" 

“Thursday morning." 

“Will you come in and see father?" asked Sadie, 
after a pause. 

“No, I must be getting back now. Will you tell him 
that I’ll look in to-morrow morning?" 

No chance observer would have guessed that the man 
and the woman who were parting in such casual fashion 
had just passed through a great emotional crisis. But 
the spot was not a suitable one for tender partings. 
They were in full view of all the windows of two hotels. 
The Washington Irving omnibus was standing at the 
door. Tired travellers were looking after their luggage 
and inquiring for rooms. The manager was trying to 
satisfy a dozen different demands at one and the same 
time. 

“Well, good-bye," said Masterton at last. 

He watched Sadie pick her way through a barricade 
of trunks and hat-boxes. Then he turned and walked 
down to his own hotel, which was situated in the middle 
of the town. 

Sadie went straight to her own room. Somehow, the 
room looked different. She was still suffering from the 
nervous shock of a great surprise. She had not that 
analytical turn of mind which proves the curse of so 
many women. She accepted most things as they came. 
During the early days of her friendship with Masterton 
the probable ending to that friendship had naturally 
struck her more than once. The average woman who 
has so much more intuition than the average man usually 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


222 

guesses the state of the man’s feelings long before he is 
aware of it himself. 

But, according to Sadie’s ideas, Masterton had clearly 
shown at Seville the change in his feelings. Therefore, 
without conscious effort, she had followed Christian 
Science and refused to think any more about him. 

A woman with an analytical turn of mind would have 
wept and worried. Not so Sadie. She had managed to 
enjoy herself very much without him, although now and 
again, as was only natural, she had felt a sense of loss. 
When they had met by chance in the Albaicin, she had 
realised that for her own peace of mind it would be well 
to see as little of him as possible. After that chance 
meeting she had avoided him on every occasion. 

What she had taken to be the cessation of a man’s 
affection had been merely a halt in a man’s affection. It 
was all very surprising — very unlooked for. 

Sadie sat down by the open window, thinking over 
the events of the afternoon. She had promised to 
marry Masterton. In future her life would be bound 
up with his. 

Marriage in this instance meant a greater change than 
usual. It meant giving up her country — it meant living 
in England. And yet the odd thing about it all was 
that it seemed inevitable. If before coming to Europe 
some one had said to her, “Would you marry an 
Englishman and settle down in England?” Sadie 
would have answered, in characteristic fashion, “Why, 
no.” 

She thought of the various men who had passed into 
her life and passed out of it again. She had had many 
boy friends, but no serious love affair until Tom Vincent 
had spoilt a pleasant comradeship by asking her to 
marry him. 


THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE 223 


The voyage to Europe had followed and the veiled 
declaration of the handsome Irishman. When she 
thought of Desmond, her thoughts naturally turned to 
Dr. George. She had spent most of the time on the 
voyage in the company of one or other. 

Sadie knew that Dr. George had liked her. When 
they said good-bye, she had surprised a look on his face 
which had told her a good deal. Several long conversa- 
tions she had enjoyed with him came back to her now. 
She recalled his playful remark that she must not marry 
an Englishman, because he would not be as easy to 
manage as an American. She recalled her light-hearted 
answer. She had told him she was not very anxious to 
fix up with either. And then Dr. George had dropped 
his bantering tone and had spoken seriously. No man 
had ever spoken to her quite so seriously before. At 
that moment she had felt like a little helpless child 
instead of a graduate of Vassar. Dr. George’s words 
were ringing in her ears now — she could not get them 
out of her head — “Life’s road is long and pretty 
pebbly in places, and it’s best to secure a companion 
for the journey. Now, to my mind, a good husband 
is about the best travelling companion a woman can 
have.” 

Masterton told Phibbs the news during dinner. Phibbs 
was delighted and felt that he was partly responsible. 
Was not he the one who had said that Sadie intended 
visiting the garden of the Generalife? Everything had 
turned out exactly as he had anticipated; he con- 
gratulated himself on the delicate way he had managed 
the whole affair. 

“We ought to have a bottle of fizz to celebrate the 
event,” he said. 

Masterton agreed that this was a good suggestion. 


224 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“I suppose the Van Puttens won’t sail now?” said 
Phibbs, carefully studying the wine list. 

“Oh, no! Of course, it means a change all round.” 

“What do they intend doing?” 

“They’ll probably go straight through to London, 
and, in a week or so, I suppose they’ll come down to 
Silcombe.” 

“I wonder if your mother will be surprised?” 

Masterton drained his glass of champagne before 
replying. The thought of his mother was already 
beginning to trouble him. He determined to write to 
her as soon as dinner was over. Accordingly, after one 
cigarette with Phibbs, he went straight to the reading- 
room. Two tables were set aside for writing; both were 
engaged. Masterton sat down and waited, and while he 
waited he composed his letter mentally. The mental 
composition was exceedingly satisfactory. But when, 
after a quarter of an hour, a stout lady, who had been 
very busy addressing a score of highly coloured picture 
postcards, moved away and he was able to slip into 
the vacant place, he was horrified to find that all his 
beautiful thoughts showed a tendency to fade away. 
They refused to come when he called them; they refused 
to be set down in black and white. 

He wrote, on the flimsy sheet of paper, “My dear 
mother ” 

And then, for the next minute, he sat there, staring 
vacantly at the view in the corner. It was an idealised 
view that made the hotel appear twice the size it 
really was. At last he took up his pen and wrote the 
following : — 

“My dear Mother, — The name of Miss Van Putten 
has been frequently mentioned in my letters home, 


THE GARDEN OF THE GENERALIFE 225 


therefore you may perhaps be prepared for my news. 
I have just become engaged to her. She is American, 
as I think I told you before. I know you have rather 
strong prejudices with regard to Americans, but I am 
sure you will love Sadie — I hope so, for my sake. 
Phibbs and I think of returning shortly. At present 
I do not know the Van Puttens’ plans. Will you write 
to Sadie as soon as possible and ask her to Silcombe? 
I would sooner the invitation came from you. No more 
at present, from your affectionate son, Edward .’ ’ 

At the same time that Masterton was penning the 
above, Sadie was telling her father the same news. 
Van Putten was thunderstruck. Apparently such an 
idea had never entered his head. 

The average American father is different from the 
average English father. The English father, whether 
he is a landed proprietor with thousands a year or a 
poor clerk with two hundred a year, usually longs 
ardently for a son to succeed him. The American is 
quite content to have daughters. Some rich men openly 
state that they will not leave money to their sons. 
They believe it is better for a youth to start at the 
beginning and work his way up as his father did before 
him. The son who lives on his father is not very highly 
eseemed in the States. 

Van Putten was a rich man, but he had never 
worried over the fact that he had no son to succeed 
him. His daughter had been all in all to him. And 
now another man had appeared and was putting in his 
claim. The interloper had not even the sav-ng grace 
of being American born. It was a blow. But not for 
the world would he have let Sadie see that it was a 
blow. After she had kissed him and gone off to bed, he 
sat for a few minutes without moving. Then his hand 


226 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


strayed to his cheek and brushed away something moist. 
Then he blew his nose twice very violently. 

An aristocratic lady who was deep in a Tauchnitz 
turned to her friend with a gesture of annoyance. 

“How shockingly loud Americans are!” she said. 
Really, they have no manners.” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE MONTH OF ROSES 

Browning says somewhere, ‘Never the time and 
the place and the loved one all together!’ Browning 
is essentially a truthful poet. But there are exceptions 
to every rule. The week that followed Masterton’s 
pitiful attempt at love-making in the beautiful garden of 
the Generalife proves Browning to be wrong for once. 

It was certainly the time. The heavy rains had 
suddenly ceased. The sun no longer struggled through 
masses of ragged black cloud, but poured down on the 
Red Fortress. The marble halls that in damp weather 
strike the casual visitor with something of a chill present 
a very different appearance in brilliant sunlight. 

Yes, it was certainly the time. June is the month for 
lovers. Writers of drawing-room ballads realise this. 
Their lovers invariably meet in June — they always part 
in June. One reason for this is that June is the month 
of roses. In drawing-room ballads the rose is an emblem 
of love as the shamrock is of Ireland. No other flower 
is recognised. If the lover sails far away over the sea, 
he gives, as a farewell gift, a red red rose. If the lady 
feels that circumstances demand the giving up of life’s 
happiness, she presents, at the last moment, a white white 
rose. According to drawing-room ballads, June is the 
only month of any account. The other eleven months 
simply do not exist. The love-making season begins 
227 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


228 

on June ist and ends on June 30th. Therefore, 
Mas ter ton might well consider himself specially favoured 
by fortune. By the merest accident he had hit on the 
most favourable month. He had chosen the right time. 

And it was certainly the place. Consider for a 
moment the romances that have grown round the 
Alhambra. They are legion. Think of the women 
who have been wooed in those marble halls. Washington 
Irving dreamed away the sunny months in Granada, 
and then he awoke from his dreams and, like a sensible 
man, wrote down what he had seen and what he had 
heard, and set other people dreaming too. 

Masterton had read the Tales of the Alhambra years 
before, but did not remember much about the book. 
Sadie, who was immensely proud of her countryman, 
knew the legends by heart. She told them again to 
Masterton, her American accent giving a piquant, 
modern touch to the ancient Moorish stories. 

She was very anxious to see the room where Wash- 
ington Irving, in days gone by, had dreamed and worked. 
The door is usually kept locked, but by bribery and 
corruption Masterton managed to force an entrance. 
He watched Sadie with an amused air as she walked 
round the room, reverently touching the objects Irving’s 
hand had once touched. 

‘ Never the time and the place and the loved one all 
together!’ 

The Alhambra was certainly the place. 

Not only do Washington Irving’s sultanas glide 
through the marble halls, but the whole palace is redolent 
of the memories of more modern men and women. 
Here Charles the Fifth brought his young bride. Here 
Isabella the Catholic spent the proudest and the happiest 
moments of her life. Sadie was particularly interested 

















































































GRANADA 



THE QUEEN’S DRESSING-ROOM 



THE SIERRA NEVADA 



THE MONTH OF RSEOS 


229 


in the dressing-room of the Queen. It seemed to her 
ridiculously small. Yet in that tiny room Isabella had 
passed many long hours, beautifying herself for the sake 
of the husband she adored. 

Isabella h$d a strange personality. She managed 
to have her say on many important matters of State, 
but she did not make the mistake of many clever 
women. She had a truly feminine regard for her 
appearance. 

“I wonder where my cabinet stood,” said Sadie. 

She had insisted on dragging Masterton up the many 
steps to have a final peep at Isabella’s dressing-room. 

Masterton, like Phibbs, doubted the genuineness of the 
cabinet. He had told Sadie so, but she persisted in 
the belief that it was a valuable relic that had once 
occupied a prominent corner of the Mirador. 

Sadie crossed to the balcony and looked out. 
Masterton followed her; with arm linked lightly through 
her arm, he stood and gazed for a few minutes on one 
of the most exquisite views in the world. 

Neither spoke. 

‘Never the time and the place and the loved one all 
together!’ 

The Alhambra was certainly the place. 

People who have a horror of anything sentimental had 
better stay away from Granada, for the most matter- 
of-fact person is bound to fall sooner or later under its 
romantic spell. The Alhambra is an ideal spot for 
lovers. Who would not wax poetic in the Court of the 
Myrtles or the Hall of the Two Sisters? Why, the very 
names are an inspiration. 

Ordinary people usually have to make love in ordinary 
surroundings. There are Idylls taking place every day 
on the tops of trams and in the crowded compartments 


230 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


of the underground railway. Lovers under these 
circumstances have to fight against heavy odds. No 
outside influence is helping them — the powers that be 
are not working on their behalf. That love is able to 
rise victorious above all these disadvantages is a living 
testimony to its immortality and a triumphant answer 
to those cynics who tell you there is no such thing. 

‘Never the time and the place and the loved one all 
together!’ 3 

Masterton was a lucky man. The Fates, after having 
buffeted him about shamefully, were repenting of their 
unkindness and bestowing, as free-will offering, the 
threefold gift. And, unlike some of the blind folk of 
this world, he knew that he was lucky. True, Sadie was 
not the woman of his dreams. The woman of his 
dreams had possessed the long-suffering of a patient 
Griselda and the great soul of a Cordelia. The woman 
of his dreams had always taken his advice and been 
ready to defer to his opinion. 

Sadie did not always defer to his opinion. Sometimes 
she advanced an opinion of her own and sometimes she 
thought her opinion best. Masterton wore no bandage 
over his eyes. He did not think Sadie perfect. But 
her blemishes were dearer to him than other people’s 
virtues. She was not the woman of his dreams, but she 
was the woman he wanted. She was like no one else. 
She was just Sadie. 

It was the last evening in Granada. Phibbs and 
Masterton were enjoying a pipe together after a dinner 
rather worse than usual. Phibbs was not sorry to leave 
Spain. He was not an architectural enthusiast like his 
friend, and therefore he could not occupy himself 
indefinitely in cathedral cities. Foreign countries 
interested him chiefly because they were a change after 


THE MONTH OF ROSES 


231 


his own. He spoke no language but English; he 
thought no other country could compare with England; 
but, like many of his fellow-countrymen, he invariably 
spent his holidays abroad. He liked the change of food, 
the change of scene, and the sunshine. But after six or 
seven weeks he was always ready, as he put it, to get 
into harness again. 

“I suppose this will be our last holiday together/’ he 
said, filling a fresh pipe. He did not regret his engage- 
ment; he was honestly attached to the little “travelling 
companion;” but he could not help feeling sorry that 
never again would he be able to enjoy a holiday with 
Masterton under the same conditions. 

They had met each other first at a preparatory 
school; they had been at Trinity together; they had 
enjoyed a variety of sport together; they had gone 
walking tours together. And now a change was im- 
pending — a change voluntarily chosen by both, yet the 
sadness inseparable from every change was felt by both. 
The future might hold much that was desirable, but the 
past had been very good. 

The boat train had just come in. There was the 
usual lively scene at Charing Cross. Porters were 
hurrying to and fro. Van Putten, who did not appear 
in the least fatigued, was talking to Phibbs. He was 
comparing the English system of luggage with the 
American. 

Leo was divided between his obvious duty of standing 
by a truck piled up with trunks marked V. P. and his 
natural desire to rush forward and embrace his wife and 
his little Beppo. He spied them not very far off, anx- 
iously scrutinising every passer-by. At last he could put 
up with the moral tug-of-war no longer. He decided to 


232 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


ask Sadie if she would spare him for a few minutes. 
She was talking to Masterton; he crossed the platform 
to her. 

“Why, certainly!” said Sadie. “We shan’t get the 
luggage through for another twenty minutes at least.” 

Masterton did not intend staying in town. After 
saying good-bye to Sadie, he was going on to Paddington 
and travelling down to Silcombe the same evening. 

At last the long line of trunks and hat-boxes and 
odd-looking bundles of every shape and size were duly 
chalked. 

Phibbs had already gone off in a hansom. Leo very 
tenderly handed his charges into a four-wheeler. 

“Good-bye,” said Masterton, feeling how unsatisfac- 
tory a good-bye is at a London terminus. “Good-bye! 
we shall expect you at Silcombe next Tuesday.” 

“Hotel Waldorf,” said Leo, banging to the door. 

Sadie leaned out of the cab and waved a gay farewell 
to Masterton. Two months had passed since she and 
her father had left London. A great deal had happened 
in those two months. 

Sadie had promised to go and see May before going 
down to Silcombe. She wrote beforehand to say she 
was coming, and one afternoon, when the June sunshine 
lighted up the dark streets of Bayswater, a hansom drew 
up before a large dingy house and Sadie got out, paid 
the cabman, and mounted the long flight of steps that 
led up to the front door. 

She was rather surprised at the size of the house, as 
she had understood from May that her people were 
poor. But the house, like many another house in a 
once prosperous neighbourhood, had come down in the 
world. Some even flaunted their pitiful condition to 
the chance passer-by — displaying a long card with 


THE MONTH OF ROSES 


233 


APARTMENTS on it. If you did not see this well- 
known sign in the window, you might be quite sure that 
the house was a converted house that contained two or 
three maisonettes. 

Many unfortunate owners would have been glad to 
follow the prevailing fashion and convert their cumber- 
some houses into flats. But to do this requires money, 
and money was not plentiful in this part of Bayswater. 
Sadie did not know all these ins and outs, and therefore 
the size of the house filled her with surprise. She did 
not know that Mrs. Viner had been fortunate in letting 
off the top part to a retired Indian officer. 

Sadie gave a pull at the bell. May had heard the 
cab draw up, and dashed to the door to greet her. 

“It is good of you to come.” 

She took Sadie into the drawing-room, where the sun 
lay in patches across the shabby carpet. The furniture 
was not old enough to be of any account, but it was old 
enough to show clearly the date of purchase. That the 
room, shabby as it was, was tenderly looked after was 
evident. White muslin curtains, edged with deep frills, 
covered the backs of the worn arm-chairs; inexpensive 
cretonne curtains lined with pastel blue (May’s favourite 
colour) half screened the great ugly windows. 

The new element that had come so wonderfully and 
unexpectedly into May’s life was revealed by a long- 
handled gilt basket of pink roses, which occupied the 
centre of the table. A miniature guitar tied up with 
yellow ribbons and a highly coloured photogravure of 
the Court of the Myrtles wafted Sadie for one instant 
back to Spain. 

“I’ll tell mother you’re here,” said May, running off. 

She found Mrs. Viner standing in front of the old- 
fashioned cheval glass fastening her brooch in the collar 


234 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


of her best dress. The glass reflected a frail little woman 
with the figure of a girl and eyes as blue as May’s own. 

The bedroom was a replica of the drawing-room. 
The furniture was equally old-fashioned, and the carpet 
equally shabby. One glance at the toilet-table would 
have told the shrewd observer that Mrs. Viner had 
married before the custom had come in of showering 
dozens of useless silver articles on a bride who is start- 
ing life, and who will probably finish life with the aid of 
one general servant. 

No silver-backed brushes adorned Mrs. Viner’s toilet- 
table, no ring boxes, no scent bottles, no manicure case — 
none of the glittering trifles in which a more modern 
type of woman takes such pride and delight. A white 
china tray with little bunches of pink rosebuds, which 
May could remember as long as she could remember 
anything, occupied the centre of the toilet-table and 
served to hold a dozen hairpins. On the right of the 
china tray was a little ring-stand to match; on the left, 
an old-fashioned circular watch-stand. The whole room 
summed up the character of the woman who had slept 
there for twenty years. Mrs. Viner was a woman who, 
early in life, had learnt to do without things. 

She started at the sound of May’s voice. Her eye 
rested on her daughter with motherly pride. May looked 
so fresh, so happy, so blooming. The mother’s heart 
rejoiced at the thought that May, at any rate, would 
never struggle as she had struggled. 

“Mother, Miss Van Putten’s come!” 

“Very well, dear, I’ll be down in a minute. Does 
Letty know?” 

“I don’t think so. I’ll run and tell her.” 

May ran across the landing and opened the door that 
fa:ced her mother’s door. She had shared the room with 


THE MONTH OF ROSES 


235 


Letty since she was five years old. It was large and 
shabby like every other room in the house, but there 
were more knick-knacks about. 

Cheap little gifts given by one sister to the other to 
mark the coming of Christmas or the passing of a birth- 
day softened the general shabbiness, and told of the 
desire of both girls to make the best of things. 

Letty was struggling with the last button of her white 
silk blouse. 

“Be quick, Letty, there’s a dear! I’ve had to leave 
Miss Van Putten while I ran up to tell you.” 

“Just fasten this button for me before you go! Why 
are blouses arranged so that it is quite impossible to do 
them up one’s seif! Now don’t fuss, May! Miss Van 
Putten has only been here five minutes; I heard the 
cab drive up.” 

“Have you told Charlotte about the tea?” asked May. 

“Yes. I cut the cress sandwiches myself. That was 
what made me late.” 

The two sisters, with arms linked, went downstairs 
together, and for the fiftieth time May wondered how 
she had been able to leave Letty. She was sure she 
could never do it again. She was to be married in 
three months’ time, but marriage would not mean 
separation. Phibbs had promised to take a house in 
Kensington so that she would be able to see her people 
every day. 

After Letty had been introduced to Sadie she slipped 
away to the kitchen, where she found Charlotte busy 
getting tea. 

Charlotte had reached the flurried stage; it was 
fortunate that Letty appeared at that moment. 

“I just ran down to hurry you with the tea,” she said. 
“It’s nearly half past-four.” 


236 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“I know, miss, but the kettle wouldn’t boil, and the 
milkman has only just been; and, of course, with com- 
pany, there’s a lot extra to do.” 

Company consisted of Sadie. But Letty forbore to 
say anything, knowing that the little maid had reached 
that stage of agitation where contradiction of any kind 
is fatal. The best japanned tray was on the kitchen 
table. On it were the best cups and saucers and a large 
cup of plebeian pattern. 

Letty congratulated herself that she had had the 
forethought to go down to the kitchen and supervise 
Charlotte. She removed the plebeian cup while Char- 
lotte looked on in astonishment. 

“Ain’t I going to ’ave no tea this afternoon, miss?” 

On ordinary afternoons Charlotte’s cup travelled to 
the dining-room teapot, and returned once again to the 
kitchen. The little household had been obliged to study 
these small economies. 

“Of course you’re to have tea, Charlotte. You must 
make some for yourself in the little brown pot.” 

Tea was a very merry meal. Everybody was pleased 
with everybody else. Sadie found May’s mother delight- 
ful. Women like Mrs. Viner are common enough in the 
Old Country — uncommon enough in the New. The 
type, a compound of gentleness and strength, always 
attracted Sadie. She had admired it in foolish little 
Mrs. Mills, the clergyman’s wife she had come across in 
Madrid. She had admired it again in young Maxwell’s 
mother. Once more she found the type personified in 
Mrs. Viner, who evidently lived for her two girls. Not 
one of these was an individualist — each one had merged 
her own life in the life of another. 

Most of the women Sadie knew in the States were 
Individualists — most of the women, and practically all 


THE MONTH OF ROSES 


237 


the men. Time after time the gentleness and considera- 
tion shown by strangers in England had surprised her. 
In the States every one was too busy with his or her 
own affairs. There was no time for little courtesies. 
Everybody was in too great a hurry. 

Mrs. Viner asked Sadie no end of questions about 
the States, and Sadie answered them to the best of her 
ability. 

Mrs. Viner said — 

“I remember when I was a girl hearing Max O’Rell 
lecture on America and the Americans. He said that 
if it were possible for him to be born again he would 
choose to be born an American woman.” 

Sadie laughed. 

“ American women have a very good time/’ she said. 
“But I don’t think English women have much to 
complain of.” 

And then Sadie in her turn asked numerous questions 
about England. This was her first peep into an English 
home. On former visits she had seen nothing but the 
inside of a big hotel. 

Before tea was over Phibbs came in. IJ-was easy to 
see that he enjoyed his position in the little household 
immensely. His mother had died when he was a small 
boy; he had never had any sisters to make much of 
him. He had reached that critical period of a bachelor’s 
life that ought to be marked with a danger signal. He 
had passed through the two Delectable Valleys of Sport 
and Flirtation. He no longer cared for dances. He 
was no idler about town, but a keen lawyer. Dancing 
until two or three o’clock in the morning meant slackness 
next day. For some time past he had decided that the 
game was not worth the candle. 

Golf was his one hobby. But, unfortunately, he did 


238 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


not get enough practice to make him a really good 
player. He cared little for the theatre. When he dined 
out, as he did very frequently, he usually wound up at a 
music hall. 

The first time he took May to the theatre he asked her 
what play she would like to see. She chose a drawing- 
room comedy containing three acts of transparently 
foolish misunderstanding and one act given up to a long- 
drawn-out reconciliation. His private opinion had been 
that the whole thing was untrue to life and distinctly 
foolish; but he would not have said so for the world, 
for May had sat beside him in an ecstasy of delight, 
her blue eyes glued to the stage. When the husband 
and wife, who were really extraordinarily obtuse, flew 
into one another’s arms at the end, May had given a 
little gasp of relief. 

“Oh! I’m so glad! I was afraid they were not going 
to make it up.” 

Phibbs had enjoyed the evening almost as much as 
he had enjoyed a certain memorable evening very early 
in his history, when he had been taken to Drury Lane 
for the first time. He revelled in a series of new 
sensations. Mrs. Viner mothered him and the two girls 
alternately teased and petted him, and he found himself 
actually pitying bachelors of his acquaintance who were 
driven to spend their evenings at their club. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 

Mrs. Masterton was sitting in the drawing-room 
waiting for the Van Put tens to arrive. She was an 
energetic woman, but now she was idle. She was not 
even pretending to work or pretending to read. She 
sat with her hands in front of her, doing nothing. 

Every now and again her eye travelled to the Empire 
gilt clock ticking away on the mantelpiece. She 
remembered having waited in much the same attitude 
twenty years before, staring at that identical clock. 
Then she had been waiting for a great physician’s 
verdict on her husband. Pie was lying between life 
and death. The great physician was summoned to say 
whether he would live or whether he would die. He 
had told her very gently that he would die. 

At that moment Edward had burst into the room 
carrying a cricket bat, and had stopped short on seeing 
a stranger. And the great physician had said, “I 
am deeply s rry for you, but you mustn’t despair. 
Remember you have your boy to live for.” 

For twenty years she had lived for her boy. She 
had given herself up to Edward completely. She had 
worked hard at Latin so as to help him with his school 
work. When they went for holidays together she \ ad 
chosen places with good bathing and good cric 1 et, 
although her personal taste would have led her to select 
*39 


240 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


either Harrogate or Buxton. Once she had even con- 
sented to spend a fortnight on a Norfolk wherry, and 
a most uncomfortable fortnight it had been. When she 
heard people extol the calm beauties of the Norfolk 
Broads she said nothing, but thought of that fortnight. 
Yet at the time she had put up with the discomfort 
cheerfully for the sake of her boy. And now she was 
flung aside for a stranger. It was the way of the world 
— it was the fate of all mothers. 

When Edward left Trinity she had been prepared for 
him to fall in love and marry. She had expected it, but 
she had not been very disappointed when the summers 
slipped by without his making a choice. There were 
plenty of girls in Silcombe; Edward had known most 
of them since they were in short frocks. Some of them, 
whilst visiting friends and relations elsewhere, had made 
their choice and returned engaged. She had laughingly 
joked her son and told him he was losing all the nice 
girls. Latterly people in Silcombe had openly said that 
he would never marry as long as his mother was alive. 

The first time she heard this she had replied that her 
dearest wish was to see him suitably married. But, as 
time went on and her dearest wish showed no signs 
being gratified, she had begun to think differently. 
Their life was quiet, but happy. Edward usually 
travelled for three months in the year — the remaining 
nine he spent at home. He had been called to the Bar, 
but had never practised. He preferred to live the life 
of a country squire as his father had done before him 
And now, suddenly, without any warning, a change had 
come. He was going to get married. 

In the natural course of events she must have felt the 
change, but she would have been more or less reconciled 
to it. Now she was not. Her son was going to marry 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


241 


an alien — an American. Instead of choosing a fair, fresh 
English girl (Mrs. Masterton had Colonel Nicholson’s 
two daughters in her mind) he had chosen a stranger. 
She felt it was very hard on her. The few Americans 
she had come across during her quiet life she had always 
disliked. She disliked their voices; she considered their 
manners aggressive. She detested slang, and most of 
the Americans she had met used slang in abundance. 
She disliked the way they worshipped money. She 
disliked them altogether. She had often said that 
nothing would ever induce her to cross the Atlantic. 
And her son had always agreed with everything she 
said. And now he was bringing an American girl home. 
He would have an American wife — she would have an 
American daughter-in-law. Her grandchildren would 
not be wholly English. She felt that it was hard. 

A servant appeared at the door and announced “Miss 
Westlake,” and Mrs. Masterton got up to receive the 
visitor. 

“What a beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” said Miss 
Westlake. “I do hope this weather will last until after 
the Open-Air Fete.” 

There were two annual excitements in Silcombe. 
One was the Sale of Work held in the Vicarage 
drawing-room the week before Christmas, and the 
other the Open-Air Fete (also in aid of the church 
funds), which took place in the Vicarage grounds the 
last Saturday in June. 

Miss Westlake explained that she had only looked 
in for a minute. She was on her way to the weekly 
working-party, but, as she had not seen Mrs. Masterton 
at church the Sunday before, she wanted to know if 
there was anything the matter. 

Mrs. Masterton was thankful for the temporary 


242 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


distraction. She was very fond of Miss Westlake. 
Years before, when her husband had brought her as 
a young bride to Silcombe, he had said: “I hope you 
will be friends with Isabel Westlake; she’s only nine- 
teen, but she’s a sensible little thing, and she’s growing 
into a very pretty girl.” A year later, when Edward 
was born, she had asked Isabel Westlake to stand 
as godmother. How well she remembered her standing 
at the font in a white muslin dress and a Leghorn hat 
with pink roses. She had held the baby Edward a 
little awkwardly. But how pleased and proud she had 
been at the new dignity conferred on her! 

Mrs. Masterton looked at Miss Westlake. She no 
longer wore a Leghorn hat. A narrow-brimmed black 
straw more suited to her maturer years rested on her 
hair, which was just beginning to turn grey. But she 
still retained her youthful fondness for pink roses. A 
clump of pink roses finished off the wide ribbon 
bow. 

Isabel Westlake had been very pretty in days gone 
by, and a great favourite with Mrs. Masterton’s husband. 
“I should like to see her well married,” he used to say. 
“She’d make a capital little wife.” 

He went on saying this year after year, although, had 
he been asked where the husband was to come from, he 
would have been at a loss for an answer. 

Bachelors there were none. The men who belonged 
to the same position as Miss Westlake were all married. 
Mr. Masterton was married; Sir Francis Dutton (the 
local member) was married; the Vicar had been married 
twice. Therefore, it was not very remarkable that Isabel 
Westlake was still Isabel Westlake. 

“Are you coming to the working-party?” inquired 
Miss Westlake, after she had satisfied herself that 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


243 


nothing but a slight cold had kept Mrs. Masterton 
from church the Sunday before. 

“Unfortunately, I have to stay in,” replied Mrs. 
Masterton. 

“I don’t think it would hurt you to go out. It’s 
simply lovely, and so warm.” 

Mrs. Masterton had not told anybody of her son’s 
engagement. In fact, the real reason she had stayed 
away from church on Sunday was because she had 
not wanted to meet anybody until after Sadie’s arrival. 
But she decided that she would tell Miss Westlake. 
After all, she had a right to know. She was Edward’s 
godmother. 

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking of my cold,” said Mrs. 
Masterton; “that’s almost well. But I can’t go to 
the working-party because I’m expecting visitors. They 
may be here any minute. Edward has gone to meet 
them.” 

Miss Westlake was all attention. Visitors to Silcombe 
were rare. 

“Is it any one I know?” she asked. 

“No; I don’t know them either. They are friends 
of Edward’s; he met them abroad.” She paused, 
and then added, “ They are American — a father and 
daughter.” 

“ Oh, there is a daughter, is there? ” said Miss Westlake, 
getting more and more interested. 

“Yes. Edward has just got engaged to her.” 

The news was out. Miss Westlake was going on to 
the working-party. In half an hour it would be all 
over Silcombe. Mrs. Masterton felt as if she had not 
properly realised the engagement until that moment. 
Before then it had been a dim something lurking in 
a shadowy background. But every time Miss Westlake 


244 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


reiterated “ Edward engaged! — well, I am surprised!” 
the unpleasant fact was driven home. 

“You say she’s American?” said Miss Westlake, after 
she had got over her first burst of astonishment. 

“Yes; she’s from New York.” 

“And she’s very pretty, of course?” 

“I don’t know. Edward hasn’t said much about her 
looks.” 

“I suppose she’s very fascinating?” 

“I don’t know whether she’s fascinating or not,” said 
Mrs. Mas ter ton. “ One thing is certain — she’s managed 
to fascinate Edward.” 

“Americans are supposed to be very fascinating,” said 
Miss Westlake. 

“I’ve met several,” said Mrs. Masterton, “and I never 
met one that fascinated me yet. Still, of course, every 
nation has its own standard of beauty and manners.” 

Miss Westlake became more and more interested. 
Evidently Mrs. Masterton did not approve of the 
marriage. 

“You’re sorry she’s American?” she ventured to say. 

“I am. Look how many nice English girls there are 
unmarried! If it had only been either Mamie or Betty 
Nicholson!” 

“I believe some Americans are very charming,” said 
Miss Westlake, with a final attempt at consolation. 

“There are always exceptions, of course. But, on the 
whole, I do not admire the American girl. I remember 
meeting one at Lucerne a few years back. She couldn’t 
have been more than nineteen, and she had a day home 
like her mother. She told me that her mother would 
never think of appearing on her day home unless she 
was specially invited. Well, we don’t want that sort 
of thing introduced into England, do we?” 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


245 


Meanwhile Masterton was at the station waiting 
for the train to come in. The train was late. At last 
he saw it signalled. An old porter whom he could 
remember for twenty years, and who never seemed 
to get to look any older, came out of the station- 
master’s office and took up his position on the platform. 
No one else was in sight. 

“What a pretty little station!” was Sadie’s first 
remark. “Look, father! aren’t the flowers lovely?” 

Van Put ten did as he was told. Every stationmaster 
along the Exeter line did his best to beautify his own 
particular station, but the Silcombe display had taken 
first prize for the past three years. Damask roses and 
pinks and lupins as blue as the sky were massed 
together in seemingly careless confusion, as if they had 
sprung up out of the ground in the order in which 
they looked best. But the stationmaster, if he had 
been asked, could have told of hours of anxiety and 
toil. He had gained the prize, though, and was satisfied. 
And he was still more satisfied when the old porter told 
him how much his flowers had been admired. 

“The gentleman he sez to me, sez he, ‘I suppose them 
flowers are for sale?’ ‘For sale,’ I sez, ‘you won’t cotch 
Mr. Bunce a-selling any of them flowers.’” 

“And what did he say to that?” asked the station- 
master, delighted to know that his flowers had caused 
such a sensation. 

“He said, ‘What an extraordinary country’ — just 
like that. And then Mr. Masterton helped him into 
the carriage and they drove off. ‘What an extraordi- 
nary country!’ — those were his words.” 

This little incident made an impression, not only on 
the porter, but on Van Putten. 

“I can’t get over that fellow and his flowers,” he said. 


246 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“It beats me altogether. I thought that beautiful show 
was a gi-gantic advertisement.” 

“It is an advertisement more or less,” said Masterton; 
“our station is known for miles round.” 

“But what’s the good of advertising if you don’t make 
money by it? In the States we don’t advertise for the 
love of the thing. We advertise to make a pile. One 
would think that fellow had made his pile. Instead 
of that, you tell me his wages are about haff what we 
should pay at home. It beats me altogether.” 

“So you went to see May Viner one afternoon,” 
said Masterton to Sadie, as the carriage turned into a 
narrow leafy lane. 

“How perfectly beautiful!” exclaimed Sadie. “Yes, 
I saw May; she seemed very happy. Mr. Phibbs 
seemed very happy, too.” 

As every second brought Masterton nearer his home, 
he began to get a little uneasy. He wondered if his 
mother would take to Sadie. He hoped so. But it 
was impossible to tell beforehand. Two persons, good 
and estimable in every way, may on a first meeting 
take an unaccountable dislike to one another. Sadie, 
for instance, disliked the two Miss Hetheringtons. And 
he could not see why. 

They were approaching the entrance to the park; a 
little girl ran out from the lodge and held the gate open. 

She was a typical English cottage child with rosy 
cheeks and yellow hair. The curtsy she bobbed 
made a great impression on Van Putten. 

“Cu-rious custom,” he observed reflectively. 

“We’re very conservative in these parts,” said 
Masterton, with a touch of pride. “The good old- 
fashioned ways are dying out now that Socialism is 
coming to the fore.” 


247 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 

What will my mother think of Sadie? What will 
my mother think of Sadie?” 

Like a scale thumped out by a beginner, this refrain 
was being steadily hammered out in Masterton’s brain 
with maddening effect. 

“What will my mother think of Sadie? What — 
will my — mother — think ” 

The carriage stopped suddenly before a large white 
house built in the Italian style. Masterton linked his 
arm through Sadie’s; they mounted the steps together. 
The butler held the drawing-room door open; they 
went in. 

“Mother,” he said, advancing into the room, “mother, 
this is Sadie.” 

After Miss Westlake had been introduced to Sadie 
she did not stay long. She was anxious to get on to 
the working-party. 

There are few sensations more gratifying, more 
human, or more universal than the sensation of being 
the first with a piece of news. The fact of the news 
being good or bad is a mere accident, and in no way 
interferes with the joy of telling it. Although it was a 
hot day Miss Westlake walked quickly. She did not 
walk quickly because she was afraid of any one being 
before her with the announcement. Mrs. Masterton 
had distinctly said that she was the first to be told. 
But she walked quickly because she could not help it. 
She was so eager to tell the news and enjoy the effect. 

Sometimes people came early to the working-party 
and left early. It would be a thousand pities if she 
missed by a few minutes one of the principal residents 
of Silcombe — Lady Dutton, for instance. 

After twenty minutes’ brisk walking Miss Westlake 


248 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


sighted the Vicarage — a comfortable, square, red-brick 
house standing at the end of a real Devonshire lane, 
and only a few hundred yards from the old church. A 
June languor hung over everything. Silcombe was 
always sleepy, but on this particular afternoon it was 
more sleepy than usual. Everything seemed as im- 
movable and unchangeable as the old Norman church. 
And something had actually happened. The only 
eligible bachelor for miles round was going to get 
married. And not only was he going to get married, 
but he was going to marry an American heiress. 
Mrs. Masterton had not actually said that Sadie was 
an heiress. But, as she hailed from America, Miss 
Westlake felt justified in assuming that she was an 
heiress. 

The Vicarage door stood open. Miss Westlake 
paused on the mat to recover her breath and cool 
down. Half a dozen sunshades were lying on the 
black oak table. Miss Westlake recognised all the 
sunshades. They never changed; they were brought 
out summer after summer. There was Mrs. Windle’s 
tussore, with a curious carved ivory handle. Mrs. Windle 
was the widow of an officer, and the ivory handle was 
a relic of days in Calcutta. Mrs. Windle was very 
fond of enlarging on those days. She said India was 
the only place where she had ever been really happy; 
and the life, as she described it (or, to speak more 
correctly, imagined it), sounded very delightful. She 
used to tell of morning rides, and moonlight excursions 
to heathen temples, and balls at Government House 
where it was impossible to satisfy half the partners who 
clamoured for dances. As Mrs. Windle’s best friend 
could not have called her handsome, and as she waltzed 
indifferently, Miss Westlake (charitable woman though 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


249 


she was) could not help wondering why she had been 
such a success in Calcutta. 

Mrs. Windle dwelt on the old Indian days with 
enthusiasm. Now she was a widow she forgot her 
small, fat, uninteresting husband who had never been 
able to get beyond the rank of Major, and who had 
attributed his misfortunes to what he called the trying 
Indian climate. His friends had put down his failure 
to a less poetic, but more common, reason. 

Miss Westlake glanced at the tussore sunshade with 
the carved ivory handle. Beside it lay Miss Barry’s 
black watered silk. Miss Barry had been in mourning 
at the time of purchase, and the black sunshade had 
appeared every summer since, although, fortunately, she 
had not occasion to go into mourning again. “I really 
must get a coloured sunshade,” she used to say. “But, 
you know, the English summers are so short — it hardly 
seems worth while.” 

Alongside Miss Barry’s black watered silk were two 
bright scarlet sunshades. These belonged to Mamie and 
Betty Nicholson — Colonel Nicholson’s twin daughters. 
Where was Lady Dutton’s pink silk with the old-rose 
border? Miss Westlake looked for it in vain. It was 
not there. She felt terribly disappointed. The chief 
resident of Silcombe was not at the working-party. 
And then, just as she opened the drawing-room door, 
she caught sight of the pink silk sunshade. Lady 
Dutton had placed it carefully in a corner by the hat- 
stand, all by itself. 

In the pleasant, low-ceilinged drawing-room, whose 
French window opened on to the croquet-lawn, most 
of Silcombe feminine society was gathered. Every one 
was busy. There was only one more working-party 
before the Open-Air Fete. As the day drew near, the 


250 A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 

workers began to be weighed down with the gravity of 
what lay before them. Another hundred and fifty 
pounds was needed for the Church Restoration Fund. 
Would the children’s smocks, and the knitted petticoats, 
and the chair-backs, and the table-centres provide this 
sum? 

Miss Westlake nodded to everybody and slipped into 
a vacant place by Mrs. Windle. She undid the red 
plush work-bag she was carrying, and drew out her 
silver thimble and the d’oyley she was embroidering. 
She did this deliberately, with a pleasant feeling of 
power. She was like a successful actor who sees his 
audience assembled and knows that it only depends on 
him to say when the play shall begin. 

“ You’re late, Miss Westlake,” said Miss Bailfy; “we 
thought you weren’t coming.” 

Miss Westlake was threading her needle with pale 
blue silk. Her eyesight was not as good as it had been, 
and at last she was obliged to ask Mamie Nicholson to 
thread the needle for her. 

“Yes, you’re late,” chimed in Lady Dutton; “we had 
almost given you up.” 

Mamie Nicholson handed the needle back to Miss 
Westlake. 

“Thank you, dear. . . . Yes, I’m rather late, but I 
couldn’t get here before. ... I ran in to see Mrs. 
Masterton.” 

“Is she quite well?” asked Miss Barry. “She wasn’t 
at church on Sunday.” 

“Oh yes! she’s quite well. She had a little cold on 
Sunday, but that’s gone now.” 

Miss Westlake embroidered away quietly. At any 
moment she knew she could step on to the platform 
and hold the attention of the audience. 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


251 


“How glad Mrs. Masterton must be to have her son 
back again!” said Lady Dutton. 

“I don’t know what she would do without him,” said 
Miss Barry. “He’s a most devoted son. I always say 
he’ll never marry in his mother’s lifetime.” 

Miss Westlake decided that the moment had come 
to deliver her news; she put down the d’oyley she was 
embroidering. 

“Mrs. Masterton told me something this afternoon 
that surprised me very much. Edward has just got 
engaged.” 

For the space of a few seconds there was silence — the 
silence that is the outcome of a great shock — the silence 
that is dearer to the artist than rounds of applause. 
Then everybody began talking at once. 

“It can’t be true,” said Miss Barry. “I met Mrs. 
Masterton coming out of the post office only last Friday, 
and she said nothing about it.” 

Lady Dutton felt too offended to say anything. She 
had known Mrs. Masterton for thirty years, and she 
felt that she ought to have been told before Miss 
Westlake. 

“Who is he engaged to?” asked Miss Barry, still 
doubting. 

“He met the girl in Spain,” said Miss Westlake, glad 
that half the news remained to be told. 

“He’s never going to marry a Spaniard, is he?” said 
Mrs. Windle. “Mixed marriages are a great mistake. 
One sees so much of that sort of thing in India.” 

“One of my uncles married a Spanish lady,” said 
Miss Barry, “and I believe it turned out very happily.” 

“I’m not saying there are no exceptions,” said 
Mrs. Windle. “All I say is. as a general rule mixed 
marriages are a mistake.” 


252 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“She isn’t Spanish,” said Miss Westlake, fearing an 
argument between Mrs. Windle and Miss Barry, who did 
not ^et on too well together. 

“I’m glad to hear she’s English,” said Mrs. Windle; 
“that’s something to be thankful for.” 

“She’s not English,” said Miss Westlake. 

“Not English! You just said she was!” 

“Pardon me, I said she wasn’t Spanish. She’s 
American.” 

“I can’t believe Edward is going to marry an 
American,” said Lady Dutton. “Why, he detests 
Americans. He has told me so scores of times. You 
must be making a mistake, Miss Westlake!” 

“I’m not making a mistake,” protested Miss Westlake. 
“Pie met the girl at Madrid — or was it Seville?” 

The more Miss Westlake tried to think whether the 
meeting-place had been Madrid or Seville, the more 
confused she became. And this confusion convinced 
her hearers that her news was not altogether authentic. 
In the village Miss Westlake had a name for getting 
hold of the wrong end of the story. 

“Well, whether it was Madrid or whether it was Seville 
doesn’t really matter,” continued Miss Westlake. “At 
any rate, he met her; she was travelling with her father.” 

“Well, I suppose we shall hear something more 
definite soon,” said Lady Dutton. 

“Oh, yes!” said Miss Westlake, going on with her 
embroidery. “You’ll see Miss Van Putten and her 
father shortly.” 

“Van Putten! Van Putten!” echoed Mrs. Windle. 
“I don’t think the girl can be American, Miss Westlake. 
Van Putten is a Dutch name.” 

“She is American,” said Miss Westlake, who was 
getting tired of being badgered. “I ought to know, 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


253 


Mrs. Windle. I’ve seen her, I’ve been introduced to 
her, I’ve spoken to her.” 

At last everybody was convinced that Miss Westlake 
for once had got hold of the right end of the story. 
Everybody wanted to sit next to Miss Westlake; every- 
body was very kind in handing her tea and sandwiches 
and cakes. For the time being she was undoubtedly 
the most important person in the room. 

Lady Dutton, who had felt a little offended because 
she had not been the first to be told, moved her chair so 
as to be near her. Mrs. Windle was most anxious to 
know her honest opinion of Miss Van Putten. Did 
she consider her good-looking? She had met several 
American girls up in the hills, and although they were 
not strictly good-looking, they had more ‘go’ in them 
than the average English girl. Miss Barry kept repeat- 
ing that she could not get over the news. She had felt 
absolutely certain that Edward Mas ter ton would never 
marry in his mother’s lifetime. 

In the midst of so much excitement there was not 
much work done. On ordinary afternoons, during the 
interval for tea, the different members went round 
the room publicly admiring everybody else’s work and 
privately admiring their own. But on this occasion no 
one troubled to look at any one else’s work. No one 
could think of anything but Masterton’s engagement. 

Dinner was nearly over. It had gone off rather better 
than Masterton had expected. Fortunately Spain had 
proved a fruitful topic of conversation. But the talk 
was all on the surface. There had been no intimate 
touches — nothing to suggest that Sadie was anything 
more than an ordinary visitor. 

The frigidity of the atmosphere affected Van Putten; 


254 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


he was less expansive than usual. He was a little awed 
by Masterton’s mother; she struck him as being a very 
great lady. He had never met any one like her in the 
States. Possibly the type existed in that charmed circle, 
that seventh heaven inhabited by the Four Hundred. 
But he had never come across any member of the Four 
Hundred, and before dinner was over he came to the 
conclusion that, if the Four Hundred resembled his 
hostess, he had not missed much. 

Mrs. Masterton got up. Masterton sprang from his 
seat instantly and held the door open. Van Putten was 
very observant; not much escaped him. His futuer 
son-in-law’s formal manner in his own home tickled his 
sense of humour. Yet it was not put on — it was 
perfectly natural. There was a dignified deliberation 
about the trifling action that impressed Van Putten. In 
England people did not ‘hustle’; they moved as if they 
had plenty of time. 

Sadie followed Mrs. Masterton into the long drawing- 
room. She was not in her usual spirits; the atmo- 
sphere was chilling. She wanted Mrs. Masterton to like 
her, and she was certain that her hostess was viewing 
her with the eye of disapproval. And this certainty 
made her rather quieter than usual. Mrs. Masterton 
did her best. She was not particularly interested in 
Spain herself, but she talked about Spain because, by 
doing so, she thought she would please Sadie. 

After awhile Sadie began to speak of her life at 
home. When she made a chance allusion to her 
college days, Mrs. Masterton felt as if her worst fears 
had been realised. She disapproved of a college educa- 
tion for women. She disapproved altogether of women 
aping the ways of men. And Edward had always 
said that he disapproved of women going to college. 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


255 


She had a letter from him describing graphically a 
series of riots at Cambridge. Shutters had been torn 
down and bonfires had been lighted, and several under- 
graduates had been arrested. And these violent scenes 
had arisen simply and solely because women had 
been clamouring to be allowed to take their degree. 
Edward had written very strongly on the subject. And 
now he was actually marrying a girl who had had a 
college education and who had graduated at Vassar. 
Mrs. Masterton felt that her son was acting very 
inconsistently. 

Coffee was brought, and soon afterwards Masterton 
and Van Putten appeared. And then, as conversation 
was not very brisk, a game of bridge was proposed. 
For a long time Mrs. Masterton had resolutely refused 
to learn bridge. Ultimately she had consented to be 
taught, and now she preferred the game to whist, 
although she would not own as much. 

The card- table was placed in the middle of the room; 
the candles were lighted. They cut for partners. Van 
Putten was drawn with Mrs. Masterton. Feeling rather 
overawed, he sat down and began to shuffle the cards. 
When it was Sadie’s declaration and she said, “I pass 
it,” Masterton laughingly told her that people in 
England said, “I leave it.” 

When Masterton declared hearts and Van Putten 
said, “I go over,” Mrs. Masterton looked quite 
bewildered. 

“Mr. Van Putten means that he doubles, mother,” 
said Masterton, acting as interpreter. The game was 
not a great success, but, at any rate, it saved everybody 
from the necessity of talking. 

They played two rubbers, and then Sadie went off to 
bed. Van Putten prepared to follow suit. 


256 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Won’t you stay up a bit and have a smoke?” said 
Masterton. 

“No, thanks,” said Van Putten. “I guess I’m about 
ready for bed too.” 

After they had gone, Masterton watched his mother 
as she moveed slowly about the room, shifting a chair 
here, blowing out a candle there. She looked very 
stately in her sweeping dress of silver-grey satin. He 
wondered if she was going to pass any remarks on 
their guests. But she did not. He wished she would 
say something. The silence was becoming unbearable. 
It was Mrs. Masterton who eventually broke it. 

“Did you think I gave you a nice little dinner, 
Edward?” 

“Dinner!” said Masterton absently. “Oh yes! your 
dinners are always all right, mother.” 

He had hoped for a more personal remark; he 
waited patiently. 

“I/m going to bed now. Good-night, my boy.” 

He could put up with this suspense no longer. It 
would be far better to know the worst at once. 

“Mother — — ?” 

And then he stopped suddenly. His mother had 
paused at the door. 

“Don’t forget to put the lamps out,” she said. “The 
servants have gone to bed.” 

“That’s all right. . . . I’ll see to the lamps. . . . 
M other, you haven’t congratulated me.” 

Mrs. Masterton came back into the room. Her eye 
softened as it rested on her son. Then she said — 

“I wrote to Granada and congratulated you, Edward.” 

“But letters are so unsatisfactory.” 

“My boy, naturally I have only one wish — your 
happiness. I hope you’re making a wise choice.” 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


257 


“V m sure you’ll love Sadie when you get to know 
her. Everybody does.” 

“She seems very bright and pleasant, but you know 
my opinion of mixed marriages.” 

“You can hardly call a marriage between an English- 
man and an American a mixed marriage. Of course, 
Sadie’s father is of Dutch extraction, but her mother 
came of old Puritan stock.” 

“That may be, but English characteristics are 
bound to be lost after three hundred years. Don’t 
think I’m quarrelling with your choice, Edward; but 
have you reflected well?” 

Masterton said he had given a good deal of reflection 
to the matter. He knew that if he had reflected much 
longer Sadie would have slipped through his fingers 
altogether. 

“Their ideas are So different from English ideas,” 
went on Mrs. Masterton. “Look at the American 
divorce laws! I read in the paper the other day that 
there is one place in the States where the express waits 
half an hour. In that half-hour you can obtain a 
divorce.” 

Masterton laughed. And Mrs. Masterton hastened 
to add — 

“It was in a very ^reliable paper I read it, Edward.’ 

“Sadie says that most of these newspaper reports 
are utter rubbish — I’ve asked her about no end of 
things I’ve seen in print.” 

“D’ye think it will be a long engagement?” asked 
Mrs. Masterton, after a long pause. 

“I don’t fancy so. Mr. Van Putten must get back 
soon, and we want to be married before he sails.” 

Mrs. Masterton felt her last hope had failed. If 
the two young people were making a mistake, they 


258 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


would have no chance of finding it out before it was 
too late. 

Sadie went downstairs the next morning with the 
feeling of not being quite at her ease. Breakfast was 
in the morning-room; Mrs. Masterton was sitting at 
the table behind a large, old-fashioned, silver coffee-pot. 
She got up and kissed Sadie, and asked her how she 
had slept, and whether she took tea or coffee. And 
then Masterton and Van Putten came in, and the 
beauty of the June morning was commented on and 
the lack of news in the paper. And then (these 
subjects being soon exhausted) Masterton began to 
discuss how they should spend the day. 

“We might go into the village some time this 
morning,” he said. “It’s a pretty little village, and only 
about twenty minutes’ walk from here.” 

“You must go round the old church,” said Mrs. 
Masterton; “we’re very proud of our old church.” She 
turned to Sadie. “Are you interested in architecture?” 

Before Sadie could reply to the question, Masterton 
said — 

“Sadie doesn’t care a rap when a place was built or 
why a place was built. What she enjoys more than 
anything else is listening to a string of anecdotes. All 
the while we were in Spain she insisted on carrying 
about a little red book crammed with stories more 
or less false. Phibbs christened the book the ‘Red 
Fairy Book.’” 

“People are much more interesting than places,” 
said Sadie. “You laugh at Professor de Castro, but 
honestly I shouldn’t have enjoyed Spain half as well 
without him.” 

When breakfast was over Masterton and Sadie 
stepped through the French windows and on to the 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


259 


croquet-lawn. They felt like children just let out of 
school. If they had done what both felt inclined to 
do, they would have run races round the garden and 
shouted and laughed for the mere p easure of hearing 
their own voices. But, being civilised man and civilised 
woman, they contented themselves with walking at a 
swinging pace and talking with more freedom than 
they had been able to do at breakfast. 

It seemed as if the morning had been created on 
purpose for them. People in love have bestowed on 
them something of the magic power of the alchemist. 
By the aid of this magic power life is painted in new 
colours. The lover does not see an ordinary plot of 
common grass, but myriads of tiny blades springing 
into life. The lover does not see the ordinary sky that 
everybody else sees. In the hot blue sky of noonday 
something of his own burning passion is reflected. In 
the calm depths of the evening sky he feels the abiding 
peace of love given and returned. People in love live 
in a world of their own, in a fairy palace built of crystal, 
and the light streams in through hundreds of windows, 
dazzling the eyes of the man and the woman who have 
constructed together this fairy palace. 

Sadie forgot that she had been disappointed the 
night before. Masterton was looking into her eyes; 
she smiled up at him. Suddenly they dropped from 
heaven to earth. Van Putten’s voice travelled the 
length of the croquet-lawn, bringing them back with a 
start from the world of Romance to the world of Reality. 

“ Sadie, have you got your rubbers on? This grass 
is vurry wet.” 

“How careless of me!” said Masterton, with a glance 
at Sadie’s pointed American shoe, from which the 
glistening dewdrops were hanging. 


260 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“If we’re going to see the church this morning, it’s 
time to start. Will you come with us, Mr. Van 
Putten?” 

“I guess I’m agreeable,” said Van Putten. And 
Sadie went to put on her hat. 

Twenty minutes’ walk brought them to the church. 
Masterton tried the principal door and then a side door, 
but found both locked. 

“If you’ll wait here a minute,” he said, “I’ll run 
across and get the keys from Mrs. Brown.” 

The village street was hushed. Through the open 
window of the church school came the monotonous 
chant of children’s voices. The sound made one feel 
drowsy. 

“This is a Rip Van Winkle sort of a place, isn’t it?” 
said Van Putten. 

Just then Masterton returned with the keys. The 
church struck cold after the warmth outside. Masterton 
drew their attention to the carved oak door and to the 
reredos and choir-stalls of the same period. They 
followed him across the worn stone floor and up the 
chancel steps. 

Once upon a time there was a bashful Scotch lover 
who was too bashful to propose to the girl of his choice. 
At last he summoned up courage and, taking her into 
the village churchyard, he said, “Ma fowk lie here, 
Mary; wad ye like to lie here?” 

Masterton felt something of the pride of ancestry of 
that young Scotchman as he paused before the tomb 
of a certain Edward Masterton who had joined St. Louis 
of France on the sixth and last crusade. Facing the 
crusader’s tomb was the tomb of his wife, Dame Marion 
Masterton, who died in 1288, having survived her 
husband fifteen years. 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


261 


Van Putten was as much impressed as Sadie. When 
they came out of the church he said — 

“Life’s queer, isn’t it? It seems odd to think of 
that crusader chap living here and dying here before 
the States were as much as thought of. This little 
place must have gone on just the same for hundreds 
of years.” 

“It has,” said Masterton; “Silcombe has altered very 
little.” 

“I wonder you haven’t de-veloped it,” said Van 
Putten. “In the States our great idea is develop- 
ment.” 


Sadie had not travelled much in England. She had 
visited Oxford and Cambridge and the cathedral cities 
beloved of her compatriots, but she did not know Devon. 

She fell in love straight away with the Devonshire 
lanes and the Devonshire cream. The green coombs 
and the rich red soil delighted her; she was enthusiastic. 
She was not so enthusiastic about the people. They 
did not bore her (Sadie had never been bored in her 
life) , but they perplexed her. They struck the American 
girl as looking out on life with one eye, when God had 
provided them with two. 

The dulness of Silcombe struck her forcibly. There 
was a sameness about these large houses, with their 
well-kept gardens and their croquet-lawns. 

Sadie, after a fair experience of “hired girls,” 
marvelled at the correctness of the English servant. 
Mrs. Masterton kept six indoor servants and four at 
work outside, and each one fitted perfectly into his 
or her niche. Van Putten was surprised at the little 
attentions that were showered on him. His shaving 
water was always to hand, his ill-cut clothes ever kept 


262 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


well brushed and folded — he never had to ask for any- 
thing. It would have been impossible to command 
such service in the States. Money would not do it. 
Van Putten knew many rich men who were obliged to 
black their own boots. Every country has its ad- 
vantages and its drawbacks. The “ hired girl” system 
is one of the drawbacks of America. 

Very little ever happened at Silcombe; occasionally 
a wedding or a funeral varied the general monotony. 
There was not a great deal of entertaining. Dinners 
and dances were difficult to arrange. For one thing, 
there was a scarcity of men. In the large houses in 
the neighbourhood there were at least four women to 
every man. The sons passed into the Army or Navy — 
the daughters were left. This made Silcombe hostesses 
give up evening entertainments and fall back on 
“ afternoons.” 

Soon after Sadie’s arrival Mrs. Masterton sent out 
invitations for a croquet party. Unfortunately the day 
was threatening, and the invited guests were uncertain 
whether they were expected or not. Still, everybody 
made a point of turning up, for they were all anxious 
to be introduced to the American girl who had captured 
the only eligible bachelor for miles round. 

Is there any sight on this earth more depressing than 
a French drawing-room (without a fire) filled with 
people who meet so constantly that they have nothing 
fresh to say to one another? 

Van Putten and Sadie felt the atmosphere Siberian 
when, at a quarter to four, they entered the room. Mrs. 
Masterton stepped forward to introduce them. 

“Miss Van Putten — Lady Dutton. Miss Van Putten 
— Colonel Nicholson.” 

Sadie bowed to the Colonel, and was soon chattering 


A VISIT TO SILCOMBE 


263 


with the two Miss Nicholsons, who were shivering in 
white muslin. A momentary gleam of sunshine earlier in 
the afternoon had tempted them to put on new frocks. 

Meanwhile, Van Putten was standing in the centre of 
the old rose Aubusson carpet, waiting his turn to be 
introduced. 

“Mrs. Windle — Mr. Van Putten.” 

“Happy to meet you,” said Van Putten genially. 

Mrs. Windle looked pleased. Evidently she had 
made a favourable impression. 

“Lady Dutton — Mr. Van Putten.” 

“Happy to meet you,” said Van Putten again. 

“Miss Barry — Mr. Van Putten.” 

“Happy to meet you,” he repeated. 

Mrs. Windle felt annoyed. What she had looked 
upon as a special mark of favour was apparently the 
recognised form of American greeting. 

A painful silence ensued. 

The gilt Empire clock struck four. Mrs. Masterton 
never had tea brought in until half-past. Thirty 
minutes had to be lived through somehow. 

“I heard such a good conundrum the other after- 
noon,” said Miss Barry. She asked the conundrum, 
but it did not produce any sensation. And then, and 
not till then, did she remember that she had asked that 
identical riddle the week before at Lady Dutton s 
croquet party. 

From Sadie’s corner of the room came the sound of 
laughter. After a few minutes Colonel Nicholson and 
Van Putten joined the group. 

“I see you’ve lost one of your richest men,” said 
Colonel Nicholson, referring to the death of a prominent 
millionaire. 

“You mean Johnson of the Sugar Trust?” 


264 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Yes. What an enormous fortune he left!” 

“He left a big fortune, but he killed himself,” said 
Sadie, joining in the conversation. 

“Killed himself! I understood that he died a natural 
death.” 

“Well, if you like to call it a natural death,” said 
Sadie. “He died from overwork. Doesn’t it put you 
in mind of the little nursery tale of the squirrel and the 
nuts?” 

“The squirrel and the nuts?” repeated the Colonel, 
raising his shaggy white eyebrows in puzzled surprise. 

“Yes. Don’t you know that tale?” 

“I don’t think so. I wish you’d tell it to me.” 

“Well, once upon a time there was a little grey 
squirrel who was determined to have a real good time. 
So every morning he went out in the woods, and all day 
long he searched for nuts But he wouldn’t eat the 
nuts. He said, ‘I guess I’ll wait until I’ve gotten a 
pile, and then I’ll have a real good time.’ Well, time 
went on, and one day he thought that he’d gotten just 
about enough nuts and that he might as well start 
enjoying himself right away.” 

Sadie paused. 

“And did he enjoy himself?” asked the Colonel, 
absurdly interested in the fate of the little grey squirrel. 

“Why, no. Unfortunately, he’d lost his teeth.” 

“I see. The story has a moral.” 

“So many of our millionaires make the mistake that 
little grey squirrel made,” said Sadie. “Father was 
piling up the nuts and losing his teeth until he went to 
Spain.” 

When Colonel Nicholson said good-bye to Mrs. Master- 
ton, he congratulated her on her future daughter-in-law. 

“I like her,” he said; “she’s a nice girl.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


CONCLUSION 

As the day drew near for the Open-Air Fete, the 
Silcombe folk began to study the barometer anxiously. 
It skipped suddenly from set-fair to change. Suppose 
it veered to rain. But it did not. The last Saturday 
in June was fine. 

The Open-Air Fete was formally opened by Lady 
Dutton at two o’clock. She was presented with a 
bouquet by the same little girl who had run out from 
the lodge and opened the gate on the afternoon of 
Sadie’s arrival. She wore a white starched frock and 
her yellow hair was tied back with a blue ribbon, and 
she seemed a little awed at finding herself in such a 
prominent position. 

Lady Dutton stooped down and kissed her, and the 
child ran off and joined a group of playmates (also in 
starched white frocks) , glad that her part in the festivities 
was over. 

Sadie enjoyed this peep into village life. The scene 
did not strike her as novel — in a way it was strangely 
familiar. It reminded her of Cranford and Adam Bede 
and The Vicar of Wakefield rolled into one. All the 
stage properties were there — the portly parson, the 
country squire, the maiden ladies, the village children. 
The whole orchestra was assembled to play a tune that 
she had always known and always loved. 

265 


266 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


The Vicarage grounds were well suited to an Open-Air 
Fete. The Vicar valued his three-acre meadow too 
highly to have the ground torn up and ruined by heavy 
tent-pegs, so the booths were ranged along a waste 
field usually given up to Old Neddy. 

Neddy in days gone by had been harnessed to a 
bright yellow governess cart, and had been driven by 
all the Vicar’s children in turn. But now the children 
were scattered, and Neddy had lost the sight of one eye 
and led a happy, lazy existence, except on those days 
when he was called upon to mow the tennis-lawn. 

There were six booths in all. Five of them were heaped 
up with woolly petticoats, and knitted scarves, and chair- 
backs, and table-centres, and dressed dolls, and fancy 
blotters — the sixth was given up to country produce. 

When Mrs. Windle arrived fresh from Calcutta she 
had suggested that it would be better to keep different 
stalls for different articles. “We did that in Calcutta,” 
she said, “and it was a great success. We had all fancy- 
work at one stall, and all plain work at another, and 
dolls and toys at another.” 

But Silcombe had not taken kindly to the new idea. 
Silcombe never took kindly to new ideas. Miss 
Barry got up and said that if there were any changes 
she would for one refuse to hold a stall. “If we had a 
rule of that kind,” she argued, “and I had the toy stall 
and a friend sent me a table-centre, I suppose I should 
not be allowed to keep it.” “That is so,” Mrs. Windle 
had replied; “you would pass on the table-centre to the 
fancy-work stall. The plan works splendidly — at least 
it did in Calcutta.” “What answers very well in 
Calcutta may not answer in Silcombe,” Miss Barry 
had replied, and everybody present had admitted the 
force of the argument. 


CONCLUSION 


267 


Mrs. Windle’s proposal had not been carried, and from 
that day she and Miss Barry had never been really 
friendly. 

Van Putten and Sadie visited every stall in turn. 
Masterton was not with them; he had been asked by 
the Vicar’s wife to go and talk with Sir Francis Dutton, 
who was suffering from an attack of gout and was 
resting in a basket-chair on the tennis-lawn. 

Van Putten left Mrs. Windle’s stall carrying numerous 
brown paper parcels. 

“ Sadie,” he said, “I’ve had a long experience of dry 
goods, but I’ve never come across quite so many useless 
articles before.” 

They stopped before Miss Barry’s stall. 

“ I’ve been expecting you,” said Miss Barry. “ I knew 
you would require something useful, Mr. Van Putten, so 
I’ve put by a few things especially for you. Isn’t this 
handy? It’s for luggage-labels.” 

Van Putten studied thoughtfully the green silk cover 
worked with forget-me-nots and tied up with pale blue 
ribbon. 

“Vurry ornamental,” he said. 

“And useful,” said Miss Barry. 

“And useful, ” added Van Putten. “ I’ll take it. How 
much?” 

“I suppose you use time-tables in America, don’t 
you?” said Miss Barry. 

“Why, yes. Time-tables and ready-reckoners and 
lightning-calculators and reference-books of every 
description.” 

“Then I’ve something that will just suit you.” 

She held up a Bradshaw bound in yellow silk and 
embroidered with the motto, “Time is Money.” 

“Your work?” asked Van Putten. 


268 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Yes, my work,” said Miss Barry. “If you like, I 
can take out the Bradshaw and you can substitute an 
American railway-guide.” 

“That’s a capital notion,” said Van Putten. “I’ll 
take that as well, Miss Barry.” 

After they had left the stall Van Putten turned to 
Sadie with some anxiety. 

“I didn’t laff, did I, Sadie?” 

“No,” said Sadie, “you behaved very well, father.” 

“England is a cu-rious country,” went on Van Putten. 
“The great idea seems to be to spin out time as much 
as possible. Never spend a haff-hour if you can spend 
a whole hour.” 

Van Putten was very proud of his spoil. He put the 
beribboned covers carefully away with his Toledo daggers 
and azulejos frames and other curiosities. 

Having at last managed to get away from Sir Francis 
Dutton, Masterton came hurrying towards them. 

“I’m sorry to have left you so long, ’ he said. 

“Don’t apologise,” said Van Putten; “we’ve been 
vurry entertained.” 

They made their way to the tea tent, and 
Masterton picked out a little table right in the shade, 
and they ate little round scones and Devonshire cream, 
and Sadie enjoyed herself because it was all so old 
world and peaceful. 

Every now and then a friend would pass the little 
table, and greetings would be exchanged to the tune of 
the same thankful refrain: “Aren’t we lucky to have 
such a beautiful day for the Open-Air Fete?” 

“Have you seen the display of fruit and flowers?” 
Mrs. Windle asked Van Putten. “You haven’t? Come 
with me and I’ll show you where it is.” 

Mrs. Windle could not help feeling a little interested 


CONCLUSION 


269 


in Van Putten. She was lonely. He was lonely or 
would be lonely after Sadie was married. Mrs. Windle 
had settled down fairly well at Silcombe, but the 
American brought with him a whiff of a larger world. 
Strange things happen. Mrs. Windle did not intend 
making any desperate effort to captivate Van Putten, 
but as he had not seen the horticultural show and she 
was quite ready to see it again, what could be more 
natural than for them to go together? They entered the 
tent. At intervals down the long deal table the fruit 
and flowers were ranged. There were bulky turnips, 
and enormous cucumbers, and French beans, and fat 
pods split in two to show off the size of the round green 
peas. There were rosy-cheeked apples, and raspberries, 
and red currants, and hairy gooseberries, and dark purple 
egg plums. Almost every plate bore a ticket — First 
Prize, Second Prize, Third Prize, Honourable Mention. 

“It reminds me of the school I went to when I was a 
little boy,” said Van Putten. “There were fourteen of 
us at that school, and when the prize-giving came off 
there was only one boy who didn’t take a prize. He 
was really too bad.” 

“I hope you weren’t that boy?” said Mrs. Windle. 

“I was,” replied Van Putten, with a smile of recollec- 
tion. 

“Aren’t those roses perfect?” said Mrs. Windle. 
“They’re grown by our stationmaster; he always takes 
first prize. This Flower Show is a good idea, isn't 
it? It encourages the cottagers to take an interest in 
their gardens. Silcombe is a charming old-world place. 
Don’t you think so? ” 

“I do,” replied Van Putten. “I was saying to my 
daughter only yesterday that I ought to have started 
my rest-cure here.” 


270 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“Yes, it’s a dear little place; artists rave over it. 
But it’s terribly dull. You can’t think how long the 
winter is. Of course, most of these people have lived 
here all their lives — they’ve never known anything 
different.” 

“You’re not from these parts, then?” 

“Oh, no! I’ve been used to a very different life — a 
very gay life, I may say. I’ve lived a good deal in 
India. Major Windle was stationed at Calcutta — he 
died there.” 

Van Putten did not know whether to offer a word of 
consolation or not. If the Major had been dead twenty 
years it seemed out of place. If, on the other hand, the 
loss had been fairly recent, it might appear unkind to 
say nothing. He looked at the widow to see if she was 
in half-mourning. She was not. He decided to make 
no allusion to the Major’s decease. 

“Do you know India?” said Mrs. Windle, playing 
with the carved handle of her tussore sunshade. 

“I do not,” said Van Putten. “I’m a busy man, Mrs. 
Windle — never so happy as when I’m in business. I 
shouldn’t have come abroad now, but Waldo Smith said 
it was my last chance.” 

“You’ll miss your daughter terribly.” 

“I shall. After I go back I shall work harder than 
ever, Waldo Smith or no Waldo Smith.” 

The sun no longer poured down; a light breeze bad 
sprung up and was flapping the canvas of the tea tent. 
Masterton glanced at Sadie’s thin dress and declared 
that she must be cold. It was no use protesting she 
was not cold; he insisted on fetching a coat. 

“I told Hobbs to put in plenty of warm wraps,” he 
said; “we’ll just go round and get something.” 

They left the crowd and made their way to a piece 


CONCLUSION 


271 


of waste ground where Sir Francis Dutton’s barouche 
and the Mastertons’ landau and a heterogeneous collec- 
tion of wagonettes and dogcarts and bicycles were 
awaiting their owners’ pleasure. Masterton found 
Sadie’s coat and wrapped her up in it. Old Neddy 
spied them from the other side of the ground and 
followed them round, rubbing his nose against Sadie 
every now and then to attract her attention. 

“Poor Old Neddy,” said Masterton. “We used to 
have great games with Old Neddy in days gone by.” 

They did not hurry back, but walked up and down 
arm in arm, stepping aside every now and then to avoid 
a carriage wheel or a protruding shaft. The stalls were 
now lighted up and the little coloured lights twinkled 
gaily in the distance. At intervals the stillness was 
broken by the sound of clapping announcing the result 
of a tug-of-war or egg-and-spoon race. 

Masterton felt for Sadie’s hand. 

“Feeling warmer?” he asked. 

For several days Sadie had wanted a quiet talk with 
Masterton. She had put off the talk because she 
dreaded offending him. Now, she decided she would 
put it off no longer. 

“Edward,” she said suddenly, “we’re beginning to 
understand one another, aren’t we?” 

Masterton wondered what was coming. A horrible 
fear that somebody or something was going to swoop 
down on him and snatch his happiness away tied h s 
tongue. Sadie repeated her question, and then he found 
his tongue and said that according to his idea they 
understood one another perfectly. 

“Since I’ve been at Silcombe I’ve puzzled over ever 
so many things,” she said. “I can’t think how you 
ever came to like me.” 


272 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


“It is remarkable, isn’t it?” said Masterton. 

“Your mother says you don’t approve of women 
going to college. Well, I’ve graduated at Vassar.” 

She spoke jokingly; Masterton was reassured. 

“People say a lot of foolish things,” he said. 

“Lady Dutton told me she was never more surprised 
in her life. She said that at one time you detested 
Americans — especially American girls.” 

“How much more nonsense are you going to talk?” 
said Masterton. 

“It isn’t nonsense. I’m alluding to all these things 
just to show that we really care for one another in 
spite of what either of us may have said, or done, or 
thought.” 

“Well?” said Masterton. 

“Well, you mustn’t run off with the idea that I don’t 
care, because — because ” 

“Well?” said Masterton again. 

“Because — I don’t want to live at Silcombe.” 

Masterton was tremendously relieved. If Sadie did 
not want to live at Silcombe, they could easily live else- 
where. During the past fortnight the thought had 
struck him that life at Silcombe to an American would 
not be life at all. 

“Of course, I understand what you mean,” he said; 
“this place must seem frightfully dull.” 

“It isn’t because it’s dull that I don’t want to live 
here. Once I stayed for two months on a ranch out 
West. The nearest township was between twenty and 
thirty miles. We had no neighbours, and yet I loved 
the life. There was so much to do — the day was never 
long enough But here everything seems finished — 
there’s nothing left to do. Do you remember that day 
at Seville when we went over the Caridad and saw 


CONCLUSION 


273 


those poor old men patiently waiting for the end? Well, 
Silcombe reminds me of the Caridad.” 

“You don’t think you’d get used to it and settle 
down after a bit?” 

“I’m sure I shouldn’t. I’ve been wanting to tell 
you so for the past week, but I thought you’d be so 
disappointed.” 

“I’m attached to the old place, of course; we’ve lived 
here always.” 

“It’s best to say straight out, isn’t it?” said Sadie. 
“People are often afraid to say things straight out 
before they’re married. The cousin I was telling you 
about just now, who owns a ranch out West, married a 
girl from New York. She’d been used to a lot of 
gaiety, and she said she was sure she would find life 
on the ranch a lovely change.” 

“And how has it answered?” 

“It hasn’t answered. Every time she goes to New 
York to visit her old friends she stays away longer and 
longer.” 

“Life on a ranch is all right for a man, but it must 
be terribly dull for a woman,” said Masterton. 

But Sadie did not agree with this. She said — 

“It’s a grand life for people who are young and 
strong. There are thousands upon thousands of acres 
just waiting to be cultivated. And then, by and by, the 
little towns spring up, and the people begin to build. 
Oh, it’s a grand life! Sometimes I wish that you and 
I were starting together out West.” 

“Yet you don’t want to start together at Silcombe?” 

“No. Because Silcombe is played out.” 

Sadie, having said her say, waited. It had cost her 
something to say what she had said. A woman in love 
(and Sadie was very much in love) usually sets great 


274 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


store on the approval of the man she is about to marry. 
Sadie was a thorough woman; she wanted Masterton’s 
approval. But she had seen the failure of several 
marriages because the man and the woman had pur- 
posely deceived one another in order to keep the lamp 
of love burning. She felt that life at Silcombe could 
never satisfy her. Therefore, she decided that it was 
best to say so at once. 

“ Would you like to live in London?” asked Master- 
ton. “It’s rather odd that it should have turned out 
like this, but only this afternoon Sir Francis asked me if 
I would care to put up for Parliament. His health has 
failed very much lately and he’s thinking of retiring.” 

Once more the Fates were beneficent. They were 
watching over the destinies of Masterton and Sadie. 
Sir Francis could not have chosen a more propitious 
moment for retiring from active life. For the next half- 
hour they paced up and down the rough rutty ground 
sketching out the future. In the half-hour they built 
the house and they furnished it, and Old Neddy followed 
them round, poking himself into the conversation. 

Suddenly the penetrating voices of the Silcombe 
school-children broke the stillness — 

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow, 

Praise Him all creatures here below.” 

The old doxology struck Masterton with a new force 
as he stood there in the dark field with Sadie very close 
to him. 

“They always wind up with that,” he explained. 

One by one the coloured lights went out. Shadowy 
figures in the distance were moving slowly towards 
them. On they came. Stout gaitered farmers, and 
village girls arm in arm with boy sweethearts, and little 


CONCLUSION 


275 


children clinging to their elders and blinking hard to 
keep awake. 

The field became suddenly all alive. Old Neddy, 
alarmed at the inrush, ambled away to the farthest 
corner. There was no moon, and the ponies had to be 
captured and harnessed by the aid of stable-lantern or 
bicycle-lamp. Scraps of conversation floated through 
the air: “Aren’t we lucky to have had such a beautiful 
day? ” — “ Your little Johnny’s half asleep.” — “ Can we 
give you a lift?” — “Wo! Steady there!” 

All had been quiet before; all was movement now. 
There was a general rummaging for coats and rugs; 
parcels of every shape and size containing trophies from 
the bazaar had to be stowed away. Figures moved 
about in the patches of light; the smell of fusees and 
tobacco mingled pleasantly with the fragrance of flowers. 
One by one each gig was packed with its human load 
and departed. Neighbourly good-nights were called 
out in passing. A shaking of the reins and a flick of 
the whip warned each pony that he was no longer at 
liberty to nibble the short grass. His owner was 
anxious to find himself once more at home. The pro- 
cession of vehicles could be seen in the distance winding 
in and out of the long curved road and disappearing up 
the hill in the fashion the Italian painters are so fond 
of depicting. Only one person remained — a Silcombe 
youth who had had some trouble with his bicycle tyre. 
His friends, after having waited some time, eventually 
went off without him. The solitary figure began to 
pump up the flattened tyre. Every now and then he 
paused in his work and looked along the white road to 
the thin ine of disappearing lights. At last he mounted 
his bicycle and rode off after the others. 


278 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


Mrs. Masterton, who was standing outside, felt that 
much as she disliked Americanisms there was something 
hearty in this form of greeting. The English ‘Come 
in ’ is chilly. It is as much as to say, ‘ I am here, but not 
particularly anxious to see you.’ But ‘Come right in’ 
is irresistible. 

“How are you getting on?” said Mrs. Masterton. 
“ Shall I send Cox up to help you? She’s a capital packer.” 

“No, thanks; I’m so used to doing everything for 
myself.” 

“I’m afraid you won’t be finished until midnight,” said 
Mrs. Masterton, with a glance round the disordered room. 
“Oh, yes! I shan’t be very long now.” 

“How delicious the orange-blossom smells.” 

“Yes. It makes me think of the Court of Oranges 
at Seville.” 

“You’re quite sure I can’t do anything for you?” 
“Quite sure,” said Sadie. And Mrs. Masterton 
kissed her and went out. 

Once more Sadie returned to her packing. But she 
had not done much before she was stopped again — this 
time by a bundle of photographs. On the top was a 
photograph of Leo in Moorish costume. She had 
taken it the morning after their arrival in Tangier. 

I he caftan had been borrowed from Shahib, and young 
Maxwell had arranged the pose. 

Sadie sat with the photograph in her hand wondering 
how everybody was getting on in Tangier. Was Mrs. 
Maxwell still knitting gauntlets for the deep-sea 
fishermen? Had the German Bank seen fit to pro- 
mote her son? Was Shahib still conducting parties of 
tourists round the Great Socco? Had he completed 
his bargain for the purchase of the little Suleika? 

She put down Leo’s photograph and took up the 






CORDOVA AND GRANADA 



ONE OF THE FIVE FOUNTAINS 



A GARDEN OF ROMANCE 





CONCLUSION 


279 


Escorial. How grim Philip the Second’s gigantic palace 
appeared. She thought of Brother Bernardino, the old 
monk she had been so friendly with. Dear old man! 
Was he still digging in the garden? Was he -still 
pointing out the choir-stall in the little gallery where 
Philip received the great news of the victory of Lepanto? 

Here was Burgos — Burgos with its penetrating winds 
and its inhabitants shivering under their striped blankets. 
And here was the Court of Oranges at Cordova. It 
was one of Sadie’s best photographs; she was very 
proud of it. The women were filling their water-pots 
at the five fountains. And standing about were the 
loafers of Cordova — the idlers who were content to idle 
and watch others work. The orange-blossom in the 
room mingled in Sadie’s memory with the overpowering 
sweetness of the Court of Oranges. 

Here was Seville and the sunny garden of the 
Caridad. She wished she had a photograph of the 
Sister of Mercy who had taken them round the wards. 
Were the old men still sitting there patiently waiting 
for death? Had some been already called? 

Sadie put down the Caridad and took up Pilate’s 
House. How well she remembered the morning she 
had spent there! That same day the break with 
Masterton had come. There had never been any 
explanation of that break. It was mixed up in Sadie’s 
mind with the visit to Pilate’s House in the morning, 
and the introduction to the two Miss Hetheringtons in 
the afternoon. At the time the break had seemed 
irreparable. When she left Seville she never expected 
to see Masterton again. She recalled the last morning — 
the last peep at La Giralda. La Giralda veered with 
every breath of wind. How odd life was! how it 
twisted and turned! 


280 


A TOUR AND A ROMANCE 


And here was the Garden of the Generalife. What 
a wonderful garden it was, with palm trees and orange 
trees and roses — red, pink, yellow, and white — weighing 
down the bushes until they touched the edge of the 
water in the Court of the Aqueduct. 

Sadie looked longer at the Garden of the Generalife 
than at any of the other photographs. She loved 
Spain. The cathedrals and palaces of that land of 
Romance were very dear to her, but the Garden of the 
Generalife was especially dear. For was it not a part 
of her own romance? 

The Lusitania was on the point of starting. Sadie 
and her husband were standing on the promenade deck 
with Van Putten; the time had come to say good-bye. 

Van Putten felt the moment was a solemn one, and 
as he did not want Sadie to cry or to cry himself, he 
said cheerfully — 

‘Til cable as soon as I get to the other side. And 
look here, Sadie, mind you don’t get too British before 
you come home to New York City.” 

The gangways were put down; the huge vessel 
began to churn up the dark waters. Sadie remained 
motionless, gazing at the spot where Van Putten was 
standing alone. Her eyes were full of tears, but the 
smile, characteristic both of her and her father, was 
playing about her lips. 

“It’s vurry hard to say good-bye,” she said, and 
slipping back into an Americanism, told her husband 
how deeply moved she was. “It’s vurry hard, but it’s 
got to be done.” 


WAY ■ ^ 191 • 



One copy del. to Cat. Div. 


-MAY 11 19M 



